The Terror of Buckland
by Inkling3
Summary: Being an account of the pranks, scrapes, and misadventures of young Frodo Baggins, featuring sporadic angst, attempted humor, assorted farm animals, and a hobbit ghost story.
1. The Black Bull of Bamfurlong

_Rating: PG for mild implied violence in some chapters.  
__Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Tolkien estate; I am making no money from this fic._

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**The Terror of Buckland**

_by Inkling_

"I recollect the time when young Frodo Baggins was one of the worst young rascals of Buckland."  
- Farmer Maggot

Part One: The Black Bull of Bamfurlong

It looked almost peaceful at first, the great beast standing there as still as if carved in stone, save for the tail switching incessantly at the flies. The pastoral setting only deepened the illusion: the quiet meadow still lush and verdant on this fine September afternoon, its solitary occupant dappled by the shade of an ancient apple tree, a gentle breeze stirring the long grass and the branches laden with fruit.

The calm was shattered in an instant as the beast suddenly stirred, snorted, and swung its head around to ram the tree with a great crash. Quivering from root to crown, the tree sent a shower of apples down on its attacker, which at another time would have greedily devoured them. But not now. Now lust and rage consumed the beast, coursed through it and filled its brain like a red flood, leaving no room for any other desires or appetites. It was rutting season, and 1,500 pounds of muscle and sinew, hide and horn were focused only on the drive to mate and, barring that, to fight, maim, and kill. However, satisfaction had heretofore been denied and the beast bellowed in frustrated fury.

...  
  
"Hold up, Frodo!"

Three young hobbits were running through a cornfield, each clutching a bulging burlap sack. One, tall for his age, lithe and long-limbed as a young deer, was well ahead of his companions. But on hearing his name, he slowed and turned back.

"Come on," he called, his voice sharp with impatience. "Maggot will have our hides if he catches us!" The other two came puffing up, wiping grubby hands across their sweat-streaked foreheads. "Hurry now, down this row, out of the field and then a straight shot to the ferry," urged Frodo, clearly the guide and leader of the little raiding party. But before they could start off again there came suddenly the sound of baying in the alarmingly near distance.

"Farmer Maggot's dogs!" yelped one of the boys.

"Crikey! We're done for now!" moaned the smallest of the three. And so it would seem, for while they could hope to outrun the stout farmer, they knew their legs were no match for swift canine paws.

Frodo did not speak but only looked this way and that, casting about for a new escape route. He pointed to a high stone wall where the cornfield ended a few yards away. "There's our path—none of his dogs can clear that, not even Goblin! Cutting through that pasture should bring us out even closer to the river."

The others just stared at him in horror, even as Frodo moved toward the wall. "Isn't—isn't that the bull pasture?" gulped the small one.

Frodo just shrugged and kept going. "What if it is?"

"Frodo, are you daft? That's Bandobras in there!" shouted the older lad. All the hobbit children in the area knew about Farmer Maggot's stud bull, the apple of his eye and the pride of Bamfurlong Farm. While it had taken many prizes and sired half the calves in the Eastfarthing, it had an evil reputation, having once gored and tossed a dog foolish enough to bait it. Except for breeding and occasional trips to the fair, it was generally left to brood in solitary malice.

Frodo's sack was now atop the wall and with an easy grace he swung himself up beside it. He sat for a moment with his legs dangling as he surveyed the pasture. Then he looked back at his companions and grinned. "I'll reach the other side before that great lumbering brute even knows I'm here," he declared confidently. "But if you'd rather wait for the dogs, suit yourself!" Pushing off, he dropped from view. The others stood momentarily frozen in place, but a renewed chorus of barking suddenly cured their indecision and they dashed for the wall.

By the time they had scrambled up and peered over the top, Frodo was well on his way across the field. He sauntered at a deliberate pace, neither hurrying nor lingering, seeming to ignore the bull completely though in fact his eyes never left it. At one point he stopped, picked up an apple, and casually took a bite before continuing. Bandobras stood motionless and erect under the tree, watching intently as Frodo reached the far wall, scaled it, then turned and made a sweeping bow to the bemused animal. He danced along the wall to hold its attention, calling, "You'll not get a better chance than this, lads!"

Taking his point, the older boy jumped down and raced across while the bull was still focused on Frodo's antics. Bandobras became aware of the second intruder only after he too had reached the safety of the wall and clambered up beside the first. "Well done, Fenton!" exclaimed Frodo, clapping him on the shoulder, and now they both looked over at their small comrade who still perched forlorn and fearful where they had left him.

"Come on, Gilly! You can do it!" called Fenton.

"Don't worry, we'll keep Bandobras amused!" Frodo promised.

They jumped and capered, waving their arms and hurling taunts at the bull, which still only snorted and stared, biding its time. Gilly carefully lowered himself from the wall and scurried through the tall grass like a field mouse. Just as it seemed that he too would cross without incident he suddenly stumbled forward with a cry, his foot caught by a hidden tree root. His sack hit the ground and burst open, scattering mushrooms everywhere. Slowly, Bandobras turned to face this newest assault on its domain. Its forefoot raked the ground.

Gilly was on his hands and knees frantically trying to collect the mushrooms, and so did not perceive his peril until the combined shouts of Frodo and Fenton finally made him look up. But too late—without further warning the bull lowered its head and charged. Terror seized the boy and held him fast so that he could neither cry out nor move, though in fact flight would not have availed him against the deadly speed of the enraged beast.

Bandobras was now no more than 100 feet away; Gilly's fate appeared grimly certain. Thus it was hard to say who seemed more surprised—the child or the bull—when a well-aimed apple core struck Bandobras squarely between the eyes with a loud _thunk_. The beast broke stride and shook its head, slightly dazed. It was no more than a momentary setback, but that was all Frodo needed to leap down from the wall and move swiftly in front of Gilly. "Get out of here," he muttered, and the boy needed no second urging. In a flash he was on his feet and running to safety.

Frodo now stood alone before the bull. It seemed to him that all else faded as they faced each other, very still and solemn, like partners in an ancient rite. He regarded the beast: black as the Pits of Morgoth, a fell light in its eye. "Is it you?" he whispered. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded a salute.

Then the moment passed and the bull was charging again, rushing toward Frodo and not to be stopped now by apples or anything else. Save for drawing into a slight crouch, Frodo did not move. On came Bandobras, closing the distance between them like an ardent lover. A roaring filled Frodo's ears—was it the bull?

_Verily I come..._

Now it was upon him and without knowing quite what he did Frodo sprang forward, seized the great curving horns that swept down toward him, and with a wild whoop vaulted over the head of the bull. For a moment it stood there in stunned confusion, giving Frodo a chance to scramble around so that he faced forward on the beast's back. He flung his arms about its neck just before it exploded in a frenzy of bucking and plunging. Patches of sky and ground flashed past Frodo's eyes in a sickening rhythm. He felt as if his bones were being pounded into jelly. It was agonizing, unbearable...and utterly glorious. He laughed in sheer exhilaration.

Bandobras was not so pleased...in fact, it was desperate to rid itself of the Thing on its back. It thundered around the pasture, then veering suddenly made a mad dash for the wall. As the grey stones rushed toward them, Frodo closed his eyes and waited for the impact. But at the last instant the bull came to an abrupt halt. Frodo, however, did not. He soared in a sweeping arc high over the wall, landing on his back in a patch of thistles. He groaned, opened his eyes, and looked up—into the astonished face of Farmer Maggot.

...  
  
The scene unfolding in the Brandy Hall kitchen was one that had played out many times before. As Farmer Maggot paced the hearth and ranted, old Rorimac Brandybuck glowered at Frodo while his son Saradoc stood off to the side, looking disappointed but not surprised. Rory's wife Menegilda sat knitting by the fire, shaking her head and clucking her tongue at the most shocking parts of the farmer's account. Opposite her sat Esmeralda, Saradoc's wife, who was only half listening to the tirade as she rocked her baby. Little Meriadoc was watching the farmer with great interest, squealing with excitement whenever he grew especially loud.

He was growing loud now: "—and what with poor Bandobras so distressed and all, 'twill be a wonder if I can calm him enough to bring him to the fair tomorrow, never mind that he was favored to take a top ribbon, I've lost any hope of that, but right now he won't let anyone so much as get near him let alone lead him into the barn for the night—"

A sudden piercing shriek cut him off: whether the baby had intended it as an expression of admiration or rivalry was not entirely clear, but he did look very pleased with himself.

"Hush, Merry," murmured his mother, and she commenced humming softly to quiet him. Holding him close in her arms Esmeralda looked the very picture of maternal serenity, and indeed so long as all was well with Merry, other problems didn't trouble her nearly so much as they once had. Yet still she could not help but feel a twinge of the old pity and concern for Frodo that had visited her so often in the past three years.

She regarded him now as he stood before Rory staring at the floor, chagrined but defiant. Frodo had inherited little of the physical traits of the Baggins' Harfoot lineage, but favored rather his mother. Primula had been a beauty in which the Fallohide strain ran true, and to look at Frodo with his fair skin and refined features was to see Prim again. Esmeralda guessed that to be the reason Rory seemed not to welcome Frodo's presence at times, evoking as it did painful memories of his sister.

Even after three years, Rory still found it difficult to put the tragedy behind him. Frodo, it seemed, found it impossible. To see him now one would scarce believe that when his parents were alive there wasn't a brighter, happier lad than Frodo Baggins: full of life and chatter, so open and affectionate with everyone.

_We've all failed him_, Esmeralda thought sadly. But really, what could anyone have done? How could she explain to him why his parents were gone when she didn't understand herself? How Primula, as strong a swimmer as any, could be found floating face down in the river alongside Drogo and a capsized boat? How to comfort a child who has just discovered that life is not, after all, kindly and fair? It was a lesson everyone has to learn sooner or later, she knew, but Frodo had been dealt a harder lesson at a younger age than most.

Her attention snapped back to the present as she realized Rory was now speaking.

"Well Frodo! What have you to say to Farmer Maggot?"

Frodo lifted his head and steadily met the farmer's eyes. "I'm very sorry, sir, for the distress I've caused to you...and to Bandobras," he said.

If Maggot looked rather skeptical, no one present could blame him. "Hmmm...sorry is as sorry does, they say," he replied. "Stay away from my fields, Master Baggins, then I'll know how sorry you be!" With that he stomped out of the room, and a minute later they heard a front door slam.

Rory sighed heavily. "Now then Frodo, what else have you to say?"

Frodo's gaze was riveted once again on the floor. "I think Farmer Maggot said it all quite well," he replied softly.

Rory's face turned a deep shade of red. "Don't give me none o' your sass, boy! You know what I mean! I don't reckon you're quite through with your 'sorries' just yet, are you?"

Frodo frowned slightly, as if pondering Rory's words. Esmeralda cringed at what she feared was coming next, as Frodo was always honest to a fault. "Well," he said slowly, "I'm sorry if I've embarrassed you and the family."

Rory, looking somewhat appeased, began, "Now that's—"

But Frodo wasn't finished. "And I'm sorry I got caught." Rory's eyes narrowed dangerously. Frodo was now looking straight at him, chin jutting forward and eyes blazing. "But I'm not sorry I did it and you can't make me say I am! It was splendid I tell you, and I'd do it again if I got half a chance!"

Rory's face was now completely purple and he lunged forward with a roar. Saradoc sprang between them just in time. "Frodo, go to your room immediately!" he shouted. Frodo, eyes still locked with his uncle's, seemed not to hear him.

"Frodo, _please_!" begged Esmeralda.

He hesitated a moment longer, then abruptly turned and fled.

Still fuming, Rory shook off his son's hand and strode to the hearth, where he seized a poker and began jabbing the logs savagely. "Well, Sara, you've been mighty quiet all this time!" he growled, rounding on him suddenly. "What have _you_ to say?" When Saradoc did not answer he continued, "As you well know, I've let Frodo stay on with the understanding that you keep him in line." Since the accident Saradoc had assumed the role of Frodo's guardian, Rory having neither the patience nor inclination. "_Give him time_, you're always saying. But it's been three years, Sara! How much more time does he need? If you're not up to the job I may have to make other arrangements."

Sara shifted uncomfortably. "I'll talk to him in the morning," he said at last.

"Talk! It's not talk that young varmint needs, it's a cane to his backside!"

"If he's my responsibility, then let me deal with him as I think best!"

They were interrupted by a quavering, reedy voice. "There's one thing I haven't heard said in all this fuss." Everyone turned toward Menegilda, who had been sitting in a silence broken only by the rapid clicking of her knitting needles. Now she looked pointedly at her husband and continued, "Little Gilly Banks would be dead right now if not for Frodo."

"Confound it, woman! Gilly never would ha' been in a fix at all if not for Frodo."

Undaunted, Gilda continued knitting. "He's a brave lad nonetheless," she said calmly.

"What you call bravery is just another word for foolhardiness," retorted Rory. "'Twill be a wonder if the boy survives to his 16th summer if he don't change his ways."

...  
  
Frodo closed the bedroom door and leaned against it, trying to still the trembling that shook his slight frame. The heart-pumping thrill of his encounter with Bandobras, which had sustained him in the kitchen, was now ebbing away, leaving nothing in its wake but a scratched, bruised and weary young hobbit.

He scanned the cluttered room, seeking comfort among the books stacked high on the dresser, the chair, and much of the floor. Finally choosing one from the nearest pile, he threw himself on the bed—and straightaway leapt up again in surprise. He'd landed on something hard, something he hadn't noticed in the fading light. But there it was: a flat, squarish parcel wrapped in brown paper and addressed to him in a familiar hand.

"Bilbo!" he cried, and eagerly tore off string and wrapping. Then he gasped. In his hands lay a large book, as handsome and richly bound as any in the Brandy Hall library. He opened it carefully and saw it was filled with fine gilt-edged pages—all of them blank. Tucked inside the first was a note:

_20 Halimath_

_My dear Frodo, _

_I hope this reaches you in time for your birthday or, I should say, our birthday. Many thanks for your gift to me, which arrived yesterday. I continue to be impressed with your drawing skill. The rendering of Bag End and its surrounding environs is quite remarkable, all the more so for being done from memory. I shall have to press you into service as an illustrator for my book!_

_I had intended to deliver this in person so that we could celebrate together, but fate intervened in the form of the Chubb-Bagginses, who decided this was the perfect week to pay me a "long-overdue" visit. They correctly surmised that I should be glad of company for my birthday, erring only in that it was yours I desired, not theirs!_

_I trust this little gift meets with your approval. Having often noted the interest you take in my journal and the adventures I am recording therein, I thought that as a lad of full 15 years you were quite old enough for a journal of your own. I can guess what you're thinking just now: that you've nothing to write about, having had no adventures of your own as yet. But there's more than one use for a journal, my lad, not least of which is serving as a trusted and discreet friend in which you can confide your deepest secrets and cherished dreams. It strikes me that you might find such a friend most welcome._

_I hope that you and the Brandybuck clan are getting on well. Mind you keep on Rory's good side, and don't give Saradoc too much trouble. He's a good sort, is Sara...a trifle too earnest and responsible for my taste, but he'll make a fine Master of Buckland someday. I was very pleased to hear that Esmeralda has borne him a strong, healthy babe at last. After two stillbirths I feared this one would claim her life, and I daresay there will be no more faunts to follow...making this child and heir all the greater cause for celebration._

_Give my love to all and say that I shall be along soon to see how you're faring and to meet this newest Brandybuck. _

_Your affectionate uncle, _

_Bilbo_

Even after he had finished reading Frodo continued to stare down at the letter, his thoughts far away in Hobbiton. Dear Bilbo—how he missed him! He was filled with a sudden sharp longing to see the old hobbit, of all his relatives the only one whose face expressed neither worry, pity, concern, or disapproval when he looked at Frodo—just a simple pleasure in his company. He treasured his visits to Bag End, where there was no schedule to adhere to and he was free to keep the odd hours of his wealthy, eccentric cousin—beholden to nothing and no one.

And so they would sit by the fire far into the night as Bilbo with eager voice and shining eyes recounted tales of far-off lands and adventures, Frodo curled up at his feet listening in rapt wonder. They'd sleep in the next morning and after a large, late breakfast would go rambling through the countryside while Bilbo recited poetry—sometimes his own, sometimes Elvish verse. Back at the smial he would usually set Frodo to translating some passages from one of his books of Elvish lore—for, as he was wont to say, "Someday, my lad, you're going to meet the Elves. And when that happens I expect you to be a credit to the name of Baggins!"

Frodo sighed. A credit to the family name...just now that seemed about as likely an event as the return of the king. Putting aside the letter he turned back to the new book, running his hand over the smooth, cream-colored paper. A journal of his own! He felt a flutter of anticipation—as if the mere fact of possessing such a thing somehow ordained that he, too, would one day have adventures to write about.

On an impulse he reached down and from under the bed brought up a small wooden chest. Lifting the lid, he began rummaging through a jumble of drawing and writing materials. Among the sheets of parchment filled with Elvish characters, scraps of paper covered with sketches, sticks of charcoal, gum erasers, pots of ink, pen nibs and holders were two rolls of parchment tied up with ribbon. These he now carefully unrolled to reveal charcoal portraits of two hobbits: one male, one female.

The somewhat heavyset male appeared to be on the far side of middle age, his face creased and hair thinning, his eyes serious yet kind. The female hobbit had dark hair tied up with a ribbon, save for wisps that had escaped to curl around her face and nestle against the delicate curve of her neck. She, too, was no longer young but the beauty in her bright eyes and gentle smile made age of no consequence. Below the portraits were their names—Drogo Baggins and Primula Brandybuck Baggins—and the year, 1380. Frodo had sketched his parents' likenesses shortly after their deaths, driven by a fierce urgency.

He gazed at them now for long minutes, then reached out and—very softly and carefully, so as not to smudge the charcoal—touched his mother's cheek. Drawing a deep breath, he propped the sheets against his pillow, opened a bottle of ink, and set nib in holder. He opened the journal across his lap and stared at the first page, chewing thoughtfully on the end of his pen. Finally, he dipped it in the ink and began.

22 Halimath, 1383 

_I write this sitting in my room in disgrace._

_Went mushroom hunting again today. The hunt was a success but alas, so was the pursuit and we had to give them back._

_Also rode a bull...to give old Bandobras his due, he can move much faster than I'd ever imagined. Never have I felt so alive as at the moment we stood facing one another, when it seemed I beheld my Death. But it was not to be, not this day. I often wonder what my Death will look like, and if I will know it when I meet it. Did my parents know their deaths, I wonder? What did they see—the river? The boat? Each other? _

He put down his pen and stared out the window at the heedless, darkening sky. "And why did they leave me behind?" he whispered. After a moment he continued writing:

_They all forgot my birthday, just as I knew they would. It's better that way, last year was unbearable when I had to pretend to enjoy my party and Uncle Rory made me pass out those dreadful mathoms to everyone. But it proves that none of them care about me, not really. Aunt Ezzie means well but when she tries to be nice it just makes me miss Mama all the more. Anyway, she's too busy with her baby now to bother about me._

He paused again and looked over at the portraits, now barely discernable in the rapidly failing light. Unless he found and lit a candle, he would soon be forced to quit. His normally graceful handwriting gave way to a final, hurried scrawl:

_I fear that I am starting to forget my parents. Not their faces, I have my drawings for that. But the touch of her hand, the sound of his voice, the scent of her hair...all these begin to fade, and one day will be lost to me._

His pen faltered and dropped as a wave of grief and exhaustion swept over him. He closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands, but a gentle tap on the door brought him up with a start.

"It's Aunt Ezzie." Esmeralda was really Frodo's cousin, as was Saradoc, but because of the difference in their ages he had called them aunt and uncle since he was small.

Frodo hastily packed up his chest and shoved it back under the bed before calling, "Come in."

Esmeralda entered bearing a tray with some food and a pot of tea. "Goodness Frodo, why are you sitting in the dark?" She took the candle from her tray and set it on the dresser. "Here's a bit of supper, dear. I expect you're hungry enough by now to _eat_ that bull!"

Frodo looked up and met her eyes briefly, startled that she was joking about his offense. He ventured a small smile. "Thank you, Aunt Ezzie." His stomach growled loudly just then, making them both laugh.

"I also came to bid you a happy birthday, lad."

Frodo stiffened, and a closed, guarded look came over his face. "Thank you," he said again, but now his voice was low and sullen. She remembered! He hadn't wanted her to, had wanted his resentment to remain pure and unchallenged.

Esmeralda, while noting his changed demeanor, plunged bravely ahead. "There was to be a party tonight, just a small one with the family, but Rory called it off after...what happened today. I've brought you a piece of the cake, though."

"It doesn't matter," said Frodo dully, and turned away.

Esmeralda hesitated for a moment, as if searching for the right words, then reached out and put a tentative hand on his shoulder. "I know I can't take the place of your mama, Frodo," she said gently, "but I'd like to be your friend."

Frodo neither answered nor turned around, but only shrugged his shoulder so that her hand slipped off. She stood there a moment longer, then turned and swiftly left the room. Not until her footsteps died away did the hot tears fall.

End Part One

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_Author's notes:_

Opening quote from _The Fellowship of the Ring_ by J.R.R. Tolkien. But you knew that!

This is my first fanfiction (may Eru have mercy on it!); any feedback welcome and appreciated.

To Professor Tolkien, Mary Renault, and Dodie Smith: Thanks and sorry.


	2. Prize Pig

Rating: PG for mild implied violence in some chapters.  
Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Tolkien estate; I am making no money from them.  
Responses to reviews at the end of this chapter.

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The Terror of Buckland

By Inkling

"I recollect the time when young Frodo Baggins was one of the worst young rascals of Buckland."  
- Farmer Maggot

Part Two: Prize Pig

Long before there were hobbits in the Shire, long even before there was a king at Norbury, there were the Old Ones. So the hobbits called them, on the rare occasions when they had cause to refer to them at all. Of course, no one knew what they had called themselves, or who they were, only that they had left behind them mysterious stone monuments and earthworks, as different from the ruined walls and massive bridges of the North Kingdom as those structures were from the smials and farmhouses of the current inhabitants. The great standing stone near the center of the Shire was the most prominent of these markers, and according to tradition it was here that the Fallohide brothers had originally determined the ordering of the Farthings when they crossed the Brandywine to establish the new land. Even today most distances in the Shire were reckoned by their proximity to the Three Farthing Stone.

It was believed by some that these Old Ones were the same people who, in long-forgotten ages, had buried their dead in barrows on the ancient downs east of the Old Forest. But no barrows had ever been discovered in the Shire, much to the relief of its folk. Indeed the largest and most curious of the sites was not to be found in the Shire at all, but in Buckland. There, just outside the hamlet of Standelf, stood a ring of enormous monoliths surrounded by a deep, banked ditch. It was said to be haunted and was widely shunned by the locals, though it was no doubt the more prosaic fear that their inquisitive offspring would fall in the ditch and be trapped that caused parents to declare the site off-limits.

. . .

"Hssst! Frodo!"

The voice was urgent, nervous, and coming from outside his window. Frodo had been lying in bed watching the morning sunlight play across the ceiling, seeing no pressing reason to rise given the events of the previous day and the retribution this one was likely to bring. But now he got up and painfully hobbled over to the window, aching in every limb, and put his head out to investigate. Gazing up at him was the anxious, freckled face of Gilbert Banks.

"Hullo, Gilly! Everything all right? Hope you didn't catch it too hot yesterday."

"'Lo, Frodo. No, it's all right. Mum and Dad were upset and all, but I think they were mostly just glad I weren't dead. What about you?"

"I expect I shan't be very popular today." Frodo tried to say it lightly, but his smile was strained.

Gilly looked away, then shot him a quick, sidelong glance and blurted out, "My folks said I was to stay away from you…they said I should be playing with faunts my own age."

"I understand," said Frodo softly.

But the thing is," Gilly went on miserably, "most everyone else makes fun of me for being so small! It's only you and Fenton and a few others as don't."

A pained expression flickered across Frodo's face. "I understand that too."

"Anyway, we're going over to the fair in a bit, so I don't have much time. But I wanted to say thanks for… for saving my life and all."

Frodo looked embarrassed. "Forget it, Gill. You'd have done the same for me."

Gilly seemed none too sure of this assertion. "Well, I hope I'd have tried, at least," he said honestly. "Anyway, I wanted to give you this."

He held up something that he had been clutching tightly in his fist, and Frodo took it from him curiously. It was a flat, circular stone about three inches in diameter, covered with strange carvings. On one side were tiny, intricate symbols—some recognizable: sun, crescent moon, and stars—but most not. They reminded Frodo of crude characters in some ancient language, though they resembled no runes or letters that he had ever seen in Bilbo's books. On the other side was a graven image of a serpent twined around an egg; above it a bird with rays of light—or were they flames?—rising from its outstretched wings. A small hole was bored near the top, as if the stone had once been worn as a talisman. Frodo felt a prickling on the back of his neck, as if sensing the presence of a power beyond his understanding.

"That there's a magic stone," Gilly offered, as if that explained everything.

"Where did you get this?" Frodo asked, trying to sound casual.

"Well, it's a bit odd, that. About two months ago we were visiting me gaffer and gammer down at Standelf, and after tea I went out for a walk while everyone else was taking a nap. And just as I was passing near the Stone Circle, a strange thing happened." He spoke now in a hushed tone befitting the mysteries he was about to impart. "A hawk flew overhead, carrying a great snake in its beak…it must have been two, three foot long at least, and it was dangling straight down by its head. I never seen anything like it."

"And you could go the rest of your life without seeing such a thing again," said Frodo, impressed.

"But that's not the strangest part," continued Gilly eagerly. "Another, bigger hawk, or maybe it was an eagle, flew up an' attacked the first one, trying to get the snake I reckon. And while they were fighting the snake fell to the ground, straight down among the standing stones. I ran up and yelled, and the both of them flew off. 'Cause I wanted to find the snake myself, see?"

"But that would mean…"

"…that I went into the Circle, aye."

"Did you now," said Frodo, surprised. He had once spent a rather fearful night in the Circle on a dare, and had felt no desire to visit it since.

"Well, I'd always wanted to see it up close and all, though Mum and Dad would ha' skinned me alive if they found out. So I climbed down into that great ditch, and for a spell I feared I was never getting out again."

Frodo frowned, picturing his small friend in such a spot. "You shouldn't have done it, Gilly. What if you'd been hurt, or trapped?" he admonished, had he known it sounding exactly like the boy's father.

"I know. But finally I made it up t'other side, and started looking about. Well, I searched that whole Circle, and I don't mind saying it gave me a bit of the willies, it was that still and silent, but I never did find the snake. Maybe it was still alive and crawled into a hole or something. Finally I gave up and was just starting back toward the ditch when I tripped on something in the grass. And that's when I looked down and saw it, and now you know the whole story."

For some time after Gilly finished his tale Frodo was silent, staring down at the stone. Finally he asked, "And how did you discover it was magic?"

"Because good things happen when I carry it," said Gilly, his eyes shining with conviction. "Once I wished for the rain to stop, and it did—just a short while later! And the time I took it fishing, I caught more fish then ever in my life!"

"It sounds magical indeed," said Frodo gravely. "But tell me," and now a smile quirked the corner of his mouth, "where was this stone yesterday?"

Gilly looked sheepish. "At home in my room…I didn't want to wear out the magic, see?"

After a last look, Frodo handed the stone back. "I can't take this, Gilly. A magic stone only works for the one who finds it."

The younger boy's eyes lit up for a moment, then he looked Frodo hesitantly. "Are you sure? I thought it might help you with the trouble you're in."

"Positive," said Frodo firmly. "But it's all right Gill…perhaps I'll find my own magic stone someday, or something like it."

A slow smile spread across Gilly's face as he put the stone in his pocket with visible relief. "I hope you do," he said.

Some time later Frodo was back in bed, re-reading his letter from Bilbo, when there was a rap on the door and Saradoc came in. He tripped over a pile of books and, stifling a curse, silently vowed to get the lad a bookcase. After moving some more books off the chair he sat down.

"Well, Frodo! How are you feeling this morning?"

Frodo sat up and winced. "Like stone trolls have been dancing the Springle-ring on my back," he admitted.

Saradoc smiled despite himself, but his voice was stern. "Considering what might have happened yesterday, that's a small price to pay for your folly."

"Yes sir," murmured Frodo, resigned to the lecture he felt sure was coming.

But Saradoc surprised him. "Frodo, I am not going to waste my time or yours reciting to you all the reasons why your actions yesterday were wrong, foolish, and dangerous—not just to yourself but to your companions—for I know you are already well aware of this."

Frodo hung his head and didn't reply.

"I have just one thing to say: Father is increasingly losing patience with both your behavior and my ability to control it, and has threatened to send you elsewhere if things don't change."

The color drained from Frodo's face as he stared at Sara in shock. "Send me away?

But—but…Brandy Hall is my home! Wherever would I go?" He said this so plaintively, and with such a lost, frightened look that Saradoc immediately backed down.

"There now Frodo, I didn't say that it was going to happen, just that Father is making noises to that effect," he soothed. "You know his bark is worse than his bite! What happens next is up to you; no one _wants_ to send you away, lad."

But the damage was done and there was no undoing it. Though he could not have put it into words, on some level Frodo sensed that this moment was a turning point in his life, second only to that fateful day three years earlier. His childhood innocence had ended then, and now the last of his childish illusions—that there was a place he belonged, where all was forgiven no matter what he did—vanished as well. Now, more than ever, he felt there was nothing and no one in his life that he could rely upon, except himself. It was a cold, empty feeling—and yet strangely liberating. _What happens next is up to you…_

He suddenly became aware that Saradoc was still talking and had, in fact, just asked him a question.

"…do you understand what I'm saying, Frodo?"

"Yes, Uncle Sara. I understand perfectly," he said in a composed voice.

Saradoc looked relieved. "Good! I'm glad we cleared that up. Now, there's just one more thing"—and here he suddenly grew uncomfortable again—"the matter of your punishment."

Sara really isn't very good at this, thought Frodo. _He's too soft-hearted_.

"You are to remain in your room all this day, to—to reflect on the error of your ways."

"But what about the fair?" cried Frodo.

"I'm sorry Frodo, but you'll just have to miss it. Perhaps then you'll think twice before paying any more visits to Bamfurlong Farm."

"But Uncle—"

"That's enough, Frodo," said Saradoc sharply, showing more resolve than Frodo had expected. "I've no time to argue with you; I must help take the animals to the fairgrounds. I'll have Cook send over some breakfast for you."

Frodo made no answer and Sara rose to leave. Just before going out he stopped in the doorway and turned. "Frodo, do I have your word that you'll not pass through this door today?"

There was a pause. Finally Frodo muttered, without looking up, "Yes sir."

Sara nodded, satisfied. "Very well, then. I'll see you tonight."

After breakfast Frodo tried hard to concentrate on a book, but the happy shouts and laughter of the fairgoers drifting through the window proved irresistible and at last he tossed the book aside and went to sit on the sill, looking out enviously. He felt that he must be the only hobbit in Buckland staying home on this bright fall morning. Never mind that he'd had to be dragged to the last several fairs, assuming an air of long-suffering boredom for their duration. Since forbidden, this fair beckoned to him as a thing infinitely mysterious, fascinating, and desirable. He glanced over at the door before turning back to the window. _What happens next is up to you…_

A moment later all in the room was perfectly still, save for a slight fluttering of curtains.

. . .

Bucklebury Fair was a working agricultural event held every spring, summer, and fall. It was all very well, the locals would say, for the Shire to mount the huge, extravagant Free Fair, with its fast-talking vendors and their fancy wares, its lavish banquets and long-winded speeches, its frivolous games and pony races. (Though truth be told, not a few Bucklanders looked forward to the Free Fair with great relish, making the long journey every summer.) But the Bucklebury Fair was strictly no-nonsense. The buying, selling, and trading of livestock and crops were the order of the day, and all competitions—whether livestock judging, oxen pulling, or sheepdog trials—had a direct bearing on the farmers' livelihoods.

A distinctive aroma told Frodo he'd arrived at the livestock area on the outskirts of the fair. He was threading a path though the maze of pens and corrals when someone hailed him.

"Hoy, Baggins!"

A familiar knot twisted his stomach as he spotted Otis Sandheaver—local bully, troublemaker, and self-appointed persecutor of Frodo—minding his family's livestock pens. "Morning," he replied tersely, not slowing his pace. _Don't do it_, he pleaded silently. _Just this once_…

Otis waited until he'd almost passed by, then sneered, "I hear you were thrown by a bull!" He slouched on his stool, chewing a blade of grass and watching Frodo through small, cunning eyes.

Frodo paused, seeming to take a keen interest in the black goat in the pen next to him. He was resigned now. Otis had made his play, and the next move was his. "What's it to you?" he asked, with just the slightest hint of warning in his voice.

"Nothin'…only I reckon the apple don't fall far from the tree!"

Frodo turned slowly to face him. "What do you mean?" His face was impassive and his voice calm, but every muscle tensed in readiness.

"Just that your parents found a queer way to die, and looks like you're tryin' your best to carry on the family tradition!"

As quick as thought Frodo was gripping the front of Otis' shirt, his face inches from the other boy's. "Get on your feet, Sandheaver!" he snarled.

But Otis remained unruffled. "Sorry Baggins," he smirked, "but you know my dad made me swear not to get in any more fights with you." So saying he shook Frodo off, leaned back against the fence, and tipped his hat down over his eyes.

Frodo stared at him a moment in frustrated fury, then wheeled about and stalked off, fists clenched at his sides. He tried to tell himself that it didn't matter, that he didn't care…but his heart raged within him nonetheless. Would there never be an end to it?

When his parents died gossip and speculation had abounded, and some children thought it fine sport to subject Frodo to the cruel rumors overheard from their elders. He had been obliged to defend his parents' honor so often that first year that he eventually became quite good at it, and most lads were now either afraid to fight him or forbidden to by their parents. And yet the taunts had never ceased entirely. His most persistent tormenters, like Otis, had simply become more adept at finding ways to bait him and yet escape a thrashing.

Frodo wandered slowly down the dusty row of livestock pens, sunk in bitter thoughts and only half aware of his surroundings until a more welcome sight brought him out of himself. There was Fenton Longhole, sitting by his father's sheep stall. Frodo started to call a greeting, but the words died in his throat as the boy turned toward him. His left eye was blackened by a large and ugly bruise.

Fenton's mother had died during childbirth several years ago. His father, with a small farm and a large family to manage, had no tolerance for misbehavior and yesterday's mushroom raid had clearly brought swift and violent punishment. He looked dully at Frodo, then away.

Understanding that he wished no sympathy or indeed conversation, Frodo said only, "'Lo, Fenton."

The boy nodded in return, his eyes seemingly fixed on some distant object.

Frodo felt terribly guilty, blaming himself for inviting Fenton to join the Bamfurlong expedition. But he had done so because he knew that for the other boy it was more than a lark—it was a rare chance to eat his fill.

Frodo walked on, turning now toward the main fairgrounds, but in his current mood the event was rapidly losing all appeal for him. He skulked about the edges of the crowd, mindful of the need to avoid being seen by anyone who might report his presence to his relatives. Without much interest he spent a few minutes watching the blacksmiths from Newbury and Haysend compete in a pony shoeing contest, while onlookers shouted boisterous encouragement.

A few more steps brought him among the food vendors and produce stalls, where a rumble in his stomach reminded him that he was growing very hungry, and that he had come away without so much as a copper. Just as he was staring at an enticing display of large russet apples and wondering whether one of them was likely to be missed, his larcenous musings were interrupted by a gruff voice.

"Good day to you, Master Frodo! Admiring my apples, are you?"

Frodo spun around to meet the sharp, knowing gaze of old Malcolm Burrows. "Hello, Farmer Burrows," he said, hoping he didn't look as guilty as he felt. "Er—yes, they look very tempting!" He immediately regretted his choice of words, but the farmer just laughed.

"Aye, I reckon they do at that!" He gave Frodo an appraising glance from under grizzled eyebrows and remarked casually, "They say you took quite a ride yesterday."

"They do?" Frodo ventured cautiously.

"Yes indeed—in fact, it's the talk of the fair if you want to know. Maggot's been telling all comers about your escapades with Bandobras, and from what I hear the tale grows better in the telling each time! He chuckled. "Just wish I could have seen it, and Maggot's face when it happened!"

Frodo's spirits lifted a little and he smiled despite himself. "He did look a bit surprised."

"I don't doubt it. Bull-riding indeed—who knows, Master Frodo, perhaps you've invented a new competition for the fair!"

"Perhaps," said Frodo with a shrug, and started to move off.

But the farmer stopped him with a "Hold up there lad," and when Frodo turned back he tossed him an apple. "Seeing as that was the best story I've heard in a spell, I guess it was worth an apple," he said with a wink.

His curiosity now aroused, Frodo made his way back toward the livestock area. Drawing near the cattle pens, he looked about until he saw the Bamfurlong Farm banner fluttering from a nearby stall. There seemed to be quite a crowd in front of it, and Frodo crept along until he could overhear the conversation and get a partial view into the stall itself.

There stood Bandobras in all his sullen splendor. Despite Farmer Maggot's concern the bull looked none the worse for yesterday's skirmish, and in fact seemed in fine fettle to Frodo. A blue first-prize ribbon was displayed prominently on the front of the stall, and next to it was Maggot, holding forth before a group of admiring farmers.

"How far did you say he threw the Baggins lad?"

"It was 50 feet if it was an inch!" avowed Maggot, relishing every minute of this, "and he did it with no more trouble than if he was flicking off a fly!"

A murmur of appreciation went through the crowd. "When can I engage your bull's services for my herd, Maggot?" someone asked.

"Well Farley, I'm afraid you'll have to wait your turn as Silas and Tye are ahead of you," replied Maggot with a trace of smugness in his voice.

"What about me?" said another.

"And me?"

Just then Bandobras caught Frodo's scent and began snorting and stamping. The farmers stepped back respectfully.

"Aye, he's a spirited beast, make no mistake!" remarked Farley.

Frodo slipped away and, feeling he'd had about enough of the fair, turned toward home.

As he passed the Sandheaver stalls, he saw that Otis was still sitting there, sound asleep and snoring noisily. Frodo leaned against the rail of a swine pen for a minute, chewing his apple and looking idly at the family's prize pig, Priscilla, a large spotted sow sporting a blue ribbon around her neck. She was lying listless in the midday heat but on seeing Frodo she came snuffling over, smelling his apple. He gave her the core and scratched her behind the ears. Priscilla grunted delightedly.

"Poor old girl, didn't they give you any shelter?" asked Frodo, looking disapprovingly around the barren pen and then over at Otis, napping comfortably in the shade of his wide-brimmed straw hat. With sudden interest he studied the other lad's fat face, large pug nose, and weak chin. It really was striking when you came to notice it, thought Frodo, how very much Otis and Priscilla resembled one another. He smiled to himself, then stole slowly, noiselessly toward the sleeping hobbit.

. . .

The first thing to disturb Otis' slumber was the sun beating down on the top of his head. He stirred restlessly and muttered in his sleep. But it was the sound of raucous laughter that made him start up suddenly in alarm and confusion. A large group of hobbits was gathered around him, while others hung on the swine pen, pointing and guffawing.

"Congratulations Otis, are you up for best in show?" called one.

"Priscilla looks mighty fetching, don't she?" laughed another.

Following their eyes, Otis looked down to find the Prize Pig ribbon hanging around his neck. Dumbfounded, he felt for his hat, then with a growing, awful realization he ran to the pen and looked in. There lay Priscilla, wearing his straw hat and looking most content as she chewed lazily on one edge of it.

Cursing, Otis jumped the rail and warily approached the pig. "Now then Prissy, let's just have that hat, eh?" He made a grab for it, but it was tied securely in place and Priscilla had no mind to part with her new-found treasure. Squealing irritably, she jerked her head away and heaved her considerable bulk off the ground to move out of reach. Otis lunged after her but the pig was surprisingly quick for her size, and so a wild chase around the pen now ensued, accompanied by enthusiastic cheers from the onlookers. Some rooted for Otis, others for Priscilla. At one point he nearly had her cornered, but then lost his footing and slipped in the muck. As he looked up grimly, the laughter ringing in his ears, Otis was certain that his adversary's porcine features bore a distinctly triumphant expression.

. . .

When Saradoc returned to Brandy Hall later that day he found Frodo reading on his bed. "Well Frodo, I trust that you found your day of solitude and reflection beneficial?"

"Yes sir, very much so. How was the fair?"

"Oh, about the same as always…except for one rather strange incident." As Saradoc recounted the unusual events at the Sandheaver stalls, Frodo was unable to suppress a wicked grin.

"I wish I could have seen it!"

"Now that you mention it, Frodo," said Saradoc with studied casualness, "Otis insists it was you that must have done it, though he can't prove it. I told him that was impossible, as you had been confined to your room all day."

Frodo quickly hid his face behind his book.

"Frodo?"

After a moment's hesitation, Frodo met Sara's eyes. "Upon my honor, Uncle, I did not set foot through that door today."

Saradoc looked hard at him, then the corners of his mouth twitched. "Very well, Frodo, I believe you—that you've carried out my orders to the letter, if not the spirit. I can see that I'll have to choose my words more carefully next time." He rose and stretched wearily. "Well, it's been a long day…I'm off to get cleaned up for supper. You may as well join us, Frodo, as I doubt you're likely to get any more good out of this confinement than you already have."

Not quite sure how to take this, Frodo gave his cousin a cautious smile. "Thank you, sir!"

After Saradoc had gone Frodo breathed a sigh of relief, then dove under the bed for his box and journal. He sat chewing on his pen holder and thinking…all told, it had been a good day—ending as well as it could have, at any rate. Though he had not forgotten Saradoc's words of that morning, he had made a kind of peace with them. He started to write.

23 Halimath

Still in disgrace.

However, I did get to judge the prize pig competition at the fair today. The winner was most deserving…even Uncle Sara thought so, though he'd never admit it.

I know I shouldn't complain, as there's some with worse problems than mine—like poor Fenton—but that Otis Sandheaver does get me hot…

For a long time, I used to wonder why the death of my parents would cause louts like Otis to taunt me so, why they would be so keen to heap more pain and misery where there was already plenty and to spare? But try as I might, I could find no answer.

Then one day, while I was watching Amos feed the chickens, I saw them pecking one poor bird and chasing it away every time it tried to eat. I asked Amos why and he said, "'Cos one of its wings is smaller than t'other." I just stared at him, not understanding, until he added impatiently, as if I was thickheaded, "It's different, see? They don't like that."

Suddenly I did see, and what's more I saw myself too. Having no parents was bad enough, but the way they died made it even worse. I was different and the other lads didn't like it…it was that simple. "What will happen to it?" I asked Amos, watching the poor chicken cower in the corner.

"They'll probably peck it to death," he replied in an offhand way.

I was feeling pretty low when I noticed another chicken that stood out from the others. It walked oddly, with a kind of strange, hopping gait. But every time one of the other birds went after it, it fought back, squawking fiercely. It forced its way into their midst and started eating. "What about that one? Why _don't they chase it off too?" I asked._

"Oh, that little scrapper, it lost its toe to a fox. They try, but it won't back down. I reckon it's 'cos it weren't born that way, so it don't know its place in the pecking order."

How proud I was of that brave, stubborn little chicken! Long after Amos had left I stood there watching it.

Frodo set down his pen and smiled. Then he jumped up and ran out of his room, down the passage, and into the kitchen where he snatched a piece of bread before Cook could stop him. It was only the matter of a few minutes more to run out the back way, through the kitchen garden, and out to the chicken yard. He looked eagerly about, but without finding what he sought.

When Amos came ambling out with the evening feed Frodo asked anxiously, "Where's that chicken, Amos, the one with the missing toe?"

Amos looked at him blankly for a moment, then replied, "Oh, that 'un…I seem to recall it was Highday dinner about a fortnight back."

End Part Two

* * *

Author's notes:

Many thanks to my reviewers for encouraging a nervous first-time author! And sorry for the Buckland/Backland problems in Part One…sometimes spellcheck is more curse than blessing.

aelfgifu - I'm glad you liked Rory and Sara…I had a lot of fun with the secondary characters in this story. While Rory took a break in this chapter, he'll be back with a vengeance in Part Three, trying his best to steal every scene he's in.

Aratlithiel – Thanks again for your review…after waiting so long I'm glad you weren't disappointed. Apparently you've been sending some readers my way…that's very kind of you, my dear!

Curious Cat – 'Spirited but angry'…that's a good way to put it. I've always thought Frodo had more gumption than many give him credit for…glad you enjoyed this take on him.

Eiluj – Well, the angst does cut in and out (I hope the story's not too schizophrenic that way) but there is plenty more to come!

elentari angel – Thanks for the vote of confidence! Hope you liked Part Two…

FantasyFan – Frodo's my favorite too, and I'm glad you think I "got him right"…I've tried to explore different facets of his teenage character while still retaining the core traits that make him the Frodo we know and love.

J. M. Powell – Again, thank you for my very first review! It really meant a lot to me as I had absolutely no idea whether anyone out there would read this, much less like it…

Lorie – Poor Frodo, he is confused, isn't he? And while you can't really blame him, his problems in this story are at least partly of his own making.

Naiade – I am very happy to share it! Writing is a solitary pleasure, and it's nice to know it's bringing pleasure to others as well…


	3. Late Harvest

Rating: PG for mild implied violence in some chapters.  
Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Tolkien estate; I am making no money from them.  
Responses to reviews at the end of this chapter.

* * *

The Terror of Buckland

By Inkling

"I recollect the time when young Frodo Baggins was one of the worst young rascals of Buckland."  
- Farmer Maggot

Part Three: Late Harvest

It was the end of October, and that meant wine-making season at Brandy Hall. While the vineyards were quiet and empty now, as most of the grapes had been picked earlier in the month, the winery behind the Buck Hill was humming with activity. There were grapes to be pressed, stems to be strained from must, giant oak barrels to be filled and sealed, and vintages from previous years to be bottled and labeled. At grape harvest time, all hands were needed and no one was exempt.

The moist, cool climate of Buckland was not ideally suited to growing grapes, though old Rory Brandybuck would never admit it. Anyone bold enough to broach the subject with him was treated to a 10-minute discourse on the importance of upholding Buckland's status as a self-sufficient land, the equal of the Shire in every respect. His only concession on this front—after several abortive attempts—was the cultivation of pipeweed. Like the rest of the region, Buckland relied on the Southfarthing for this most treasured of crops.

Despite the odds, Brandy Hall Vineyards had enjoyed a certain amount of success, and its robust, fruity dessert wines had even earned accolades in the Shire. The most successful of these, and Rory's pride and joy, was a late harvest varietal that could only be produced when the weather conditions were perfect: a hot, dry fall and a late rainy season. Such were the conditions this year.

. . .

Frodo awoke in the grey half-light before dawn, and for a moment wondered why. But there it was again: a loud rapping on the door of his room.

"Frodo! Wake up—the Master wants to see you double quick!"

He groaned as he pulled on some clothes from the heap by his bed. What had he done this time? After hurriedly splashing some water on his face and unsuccessfully attempting to coax his hair into a semblance of neatness, he padded along the cold flagstone passage to the kitchen, where he found Rory downing a breakfast of heroic proportions.

Frodo and his uncle did not get on well together. Rory was an unreconstructed, old-style Master of Buckland—a throwback to the days of Gormadoc "Deepdelver" himself. He was a strict taskmaster who suffered no loafing, shirking, or daydreaming and often accused Frodo of these transgressions, believing that his nephew spent entirely "too much time with his nose stuck in a book." Rory himself had never learned his letters, and generally didn't hold with "all this book learnin' nonsense." He did, however, allow that the well-stocked Brandy Hall library, with its brace of Buckland historians, served the useful purpose of impressing visitors.

But whatever his shortcomings, no one knew more about farming than Rorimac Brandybuck, and he was a shrewd defender of Buckland's interests in dealings with its larger neighbor to the west. Great or small, few happenings within the borders of his land escaped the notice of this Master of the Hall.

"Well, Frodo!" he bellowed, causing the young hobbit to jump a little even though he'd been expecting it. Shouting was Rory's preferred method of communication.

"Good morning, Uncle."

"We're making wine today, boy!"

"Yes sir."

"But you're not! After what happened last year, I'll be hogtied if I let you get within 100 yards of that wine shed. I have other plans for you."

Frodo blushed recalling the incident in question, which had involved an excess of yeast and some exploding bottles.

"There's grapes that need picking today, and you're to help pick 'em," Rory continued. "I feel a storm coming on, though you'd not know it from the sky."

"I thought all the grapes were in," said Frodo, surprised.

"Nay lad, there be one vineyard left…the most important one of all." The satisfaction in his voice was palpable. "But it's not large…you and one other should be enough to get the job done. So after you've broken fast go meet Curley out by the back gate, and get yourselves down to the vineyards. Old Barden will be there to show you what to do." So saying Rory drained his cup noisily, grabbed his hat, and stumped off to the winery.

Frodo turned his attention to the first order of business: breakfast. The spread was generous even by hobbit standards, as it had to hold the workers till the noon hour…there would be no time for second breakfast today. The long trestle tables were laden with crisp rashers of bacon, plump grilled sausages, pan-fried trout, shirred eggs, hot griddle cakes with melted butter, oatmeal scones with blackberry jam, baked apples glazed with honey and swimming in cream.

Noting with disappointment the lack of mushrooms, Frodo filled his plate, found a seat and made short work of his breakfast. He then wandered over to the ovens, hoping to pilfer some fresh-baked currant buns whose tantalizing, yeasty aroma was wafting through the kitchen. Just as he reached for one his hand was slapped down sharply by Elsa Brockhouse, Brandy Hall's head cook.

"Oh no you don't Master Frodo!" she snapped, snatching away the pan. "These are for tea time, and I'll not be running short on your account. Off you get to work now!"

Frodo drifted away, but he was in no hurry to forsake the cozy warmth of the kitchen for the chill October air. He lingered by the enormous fireplace—large enough to roast several whole sheep on a spit—watching hobbits bustle in and out. The great kitchen was his favorite room in Brandy Hall, despite being the setting for most of his lectures and scoldings.

The dim, cavernous chamber was the oldest part of the smial by far, dating back more than 600 years to the founding of Buckland. It lay deep in the center of the Buck Hill, reached by a large, arched tunnel stretching from the main front door. Side passages leading to the other wings extended from it on all sides like spokes from a hub, and beneath it lay a complex labyrinth of root and wine cellars.

It had served as the primary living quarters while the rest of the smial was being excavated, and an entire generation of Brandybucks had eaten, worked, and slept under its vaulted brick ceiling. Even now it remained the beating heart of the Hall, the site of all important discussions, meetings and celebrations.

Esmeralda hurried in with Merry and set him down in his cradle by the hearth before going over to the breakfast tables. Merry was fussy, and as soon as his mother left him he began to whimper. When this produced no result he increased the volume, clearly working himself up to a full-scale tantrum.

"All right Merry dear, just give Mummy half a minute to eat, there's a lamb!"

In response Merry was opening his mouth for a really convincing roar when Frodo appeared at his side.

"What's the matter, Merry-lad, are you lonely? Cousin Frodo will keep you company! Here, would you like a rhyme?" He took Merry's hands in his and clapped them gently together in time to his words:

How many miles to Norbury?   
Six score and ten.   
Can I get there by candlelight?   
Aye, and back again.

Merry was now cooing happily. Esmeralda watched Frodo, his face lit by the soft glow of the fire, and by something all too rare these days: a sweet, affectionate smile that it gladdened her heart to see.

If your feet are nimble and light,   
You'll get there by candlelight—

"There you are, Frodo!"

He looked up, startled, to see his Aunt Amaranth scowling at him, arms folded across her ample bosom.

"Don't you know Curley's been waiting for you outside this past quarter-hour? Now stop idling about and pestering that baby…the morning's a-wasting and if those grapes aren't in by sundown your uncle will have your hide!"

Esmeralda moved quickly to join them. "He wasn't bothering Merry, Am, he was keeping him amused so I could finish my breakfast!" She turned to Frodo, who was staring into the fire. "Thank you, dear," she said gently, hoping to lessen the sting of Amaranth's words. But the fleeting tenderness she had glimpsed was gone, replaced by his usual veiled expression. Without a word he turned quickly and went out.

"I declare, if that boy don't get queerer and more difficult every day," grumbled Amaranth.

Merry started fussing again.

. . .

Frodo found Curley Brownlock leaning against the back gate with his hands in his pockets, whistling softly to himself. A hobbit of few words, Curley possessed a calm certainty of his place in the world that Frodo greatly admired, the more so as it was completely foreign to him.

"Morning, Curley! Sorry I'm late."

"Good mornin' Master Frodo. Don't you worry about it, I reckon we still got plenty of time."

"I wish you wouldn't call me 'Master,'" muttered Frodo, though he knew it would do no good. He was not entirely comfortable with the strictures of hobbit society, especially when they required a lad like Curley, who was older than he, to address him deferentially.

Curley shrugged but made no answer, for indeed he had none. Together they started down to the vineyards, walking in companionable silence and watching the day unfold around them.

When they arrived old Barden Smallburrow, the vineyards keeper, hurried over. "Ah, Master Frodo, Curley, there you be…I was just a-starting to wonder if you'd lost your way!"

"It's my fault, Barden," said Frodo quickly. "Curley's been waiting for me."

"Well, you're here now, and we'll say no more about it. If you'll come along this way I'll show you what's to be done."

He led them down a narrow, rutted cart-track between row upon row of gnarled, woody grapevines that snaked up and down the undulating curves of the land. All appeared bereft of their grapes until they reached a remote corner of the vineyards, where Barden halted. "Here we are," he announced with a wave of his hand, looking like a proud parent. "The last of the harvest!"

The vines in this area were still heavy with fruit, and scent of it hung thick in the air. There was a strange, silvery cast to the low-hanging clusters, which Frodo at first took for the sheen of dew. But then he looked more closely.

"Barden, these grapes have gone moldy! And they're shriveled too—they're no good for harvesting." For one hopeful moment, he thought they had been reprieved.

But Barden just shook his head with a knowing smile. "Nay, young master, quite the contrary…they're good for harvest, very good indeed. In fact, there's naught better. That be a very special mold, what draws out some o' the juice but leaves behind all the flavor and sweetness." He took a deep breath. "Ah, the noble rot! Makes me lightheaded just smelling it! Mark my words, this'll be a wine to remember!"

He then set about explaining the task at hand. "Now, here's a pruning knife for each of you. They're right sharp, so mind how you handle 'em. Grasp the stem just above the bunch, like so, and make one clean cut. There's two hand barrows for haulin' the grapes over to that cart yonder. See that you're careful now, these late harvest grapes are as fragile as a sparrow's egg. Ah! That reminds me," he added. "If you see any like this bunch here, where the skins have already split, just leave' em on the vines…they'll spoil afore we have time to crush 'em. The birds'll have a fair treat, though," he chuckled to himself. "Well, I'm needed over at the winery, so I'll be leaving you to it now. If you don't slack off I reckon you should have that cart filled by midday, when I'll be back with another…and some vittles too, if I remember." He winked and trudged off.

While Frodo was sometimes loathe to begin a task, once he did he threw himself into it wholeheartedly. He now set about cutting grapes with swift competence. Curley was a strong, stocky lad, and though not as fast as Frodo he proved a steady, tireless worker. They soon settled into a rhythm, Frodo filling one barrow while Curley wheeled the other over to the cart to unload.

By the time the slow _clip-clop_ of pony hooves signaled the return of Barden some hours later, they had filled the cart near to overflowing. A sturdy draft-pony pulling an empty cart ambled into view, with Barden bringing up the rear. "Whoa there, girl!" he called as they drew up.

Barden was pleased with their progress. "At the pace you lads are going, you're like to be done before tea!" He unhitched the pony and led her over to the loaded cart. "When you get that one filled," he called over his shoulder as he fastened the traces, "There's no need to wait for me as I'll be busy with the crushing a good while yet. Just leave it here and I'll come fetch it when I can." He straightened up and made as if to leave, then smiled at their anxious faces. "Ah yes, knew I was forgettin' something…Elsie sent this along for you."

From inside the second cart he produced a jug of cider and a basket containing a loaf of bread, ripe yellow cheese, hard sausage, and a few sun-speckled pears. "This should tide you over till tea time! Well, keep up the good work, lads! I reckon I'll see you later tonight at the Bonfire. Gee-up now, Queenie!" They clopped away.

Retiring to the shade of a large grape arbor, Frodo and Curley attacked the food with a vengeance, not pausing until every crumb was gone. Then they lay back with contented sighs.

"Are you going to the Bonfire tonight, Curley?" asked Frodo as he watched some crows circling lazily overhead.

"Aye, Master Frodo, I wouldn't miss it for anything. I dearly love to hear Mistress Mugwort's tales, even if they do keep me up nights!"

"So you believe in them, then?"

Curley looked a bit sheepish. "Well, I did see something one Blommath's Eve, leastways I think I did…"

"What kind of a something?"

"It—it looked like someone waiting by the well out back of Brandy Hall."

"The well, did you say? Then was it one of the Bunce brothers?" asked Frodo with growing interest, sitting up a little.

"Nay, it were a she…with long, golden hair, dressed all in white. Wondrous fair she was, but sad—so sad that I almost forgot to be scared. When I rubbed my eyes and looked again, there was naught to be seen but moonlight and shadows. 'Like as not your eyes are playing tricks on you, Corwin Brownlock,' I said to myself. "And yet…I've always wondered if it was Tourmaline Took herself that I saw."

"I wonder," said Frodo, regarding him thoughtfully. It was the longest speech he had ever heard Curley make. "Well, perhaps you'll see her again tonight!"

Looking rather nervous at the prospect, Curley scrambled to his feet. "Say, Master Frodo, we'd best be getting on with these grapes afore the day runs away from us!"

With only the hint of a smile Frodo followed suit and soon they were back at work among the vines.

The day had turned fine and hot, and it wasn't long before the hobbits had shed their weskits, unfastened their shirt collars, and rolled up their sleeves. Brushing damp curls out of his eyes, Frodo envied Curley his straw hat and regretted his own lack of foresight in not bringing one. "Rory must be daft to think a storm's coming," he grumbled. "It feels like midsummer!"

Curley looked shocked. "Why, Master Frodo…I've never yet seen your uncle wrong about the weather!"

"Well, there's a first time for everything!" Frodo was in no mood to be reasonable. He straightened up to ease a kink in his back and glumly surveyed the cloudless sky. The crows were still there, circling lower now and more purposefully. Occasionally one would dive down among the nearby vines. Frodo looked at them more closely. "Curley, those crows are after the grapes! Oughtn't we to chase them off?"

"Nay, there's naught left on those vines yonder but split grapes, the ones as Barden said was no good."

"Well the crows seem to like them well enough."

The afternoon wore on. Though the cart was nearly full, there were still some grapes yet to pick. "I'm dying of hunger!" groaned Frodo. "Surely it must be tea time by now."

"Aye, it looks nigh on four o' clock by the sun."

"Bother the sun—it's four o' clock by my stomach!"

"You go on back for tea, Master Frodo, I'll finish up here."

"I'm leaving when you do, Curley, and not a minute before!" Frodo insisted, though he thought longingly of hot currant buns. "Is there any cider left at least?"

"It's long gone, more's the pity."

Frodo sighed, drawing his sleeve across his forehead. His mouth felt parched. Struck by a sudden thought, he walked over to the crows and inspected the grapes they were feeding on. While their skins were split, these grapes showed no signs of mold and they looked plump and juicy. He tasted them hesitantly, then a broad smile spread across his face. "Curley, these are delicious! Come and try some."

Curley was reluctant at first. "I don't know as it's right, Master Frodo…no one gave us leave."

"Don't be silly! Barden said they were useless for winemaking, didn't he? Why should the crows have them all?"

Curley couldn't deny the logic of this, and soon both boys were feasting happily. After consuming quite a lot between them, they felt greatly refreshed and invigorated. Frodo's mood had brightened considerably; indeed at that moment he couldn't imagine a more delightful place to spend the afternoon.

This pleasant interlude was abruptly shattered by a loud honking coming from the direction of the cart, and they looked up to see it surrounded by an invading gaggle of geese with a keen interest in its contents. Several had already flapped up to balance awkwardly on the cart's rim and were stretching their long necks in a determined effort to reach the grapes inside. With a shout of alarm Curley dashed over and began waving his arms at them, but no sooner would he drive one off than two or three more would slip in behind him.

"It's no good that way Curley, you're outnumbered!" laughed Frodo. "But I've another idea." He cautiously approached the geese, a bunch of grapes in each hand. "Here, you greedy things—try these," he called, and tossed them toward the birds. The diversion worked and soon Frodo and Curley were at the center of an eager press of geese, their necks weaving and darting like deranged serpents as they adeptly caught whatever was thrown their way.

Frodo had just tossed a particularly large bunch toward a goose some distance from him when Curley, coming back from the vines with a fresh supply of grapes, unwittingly stepped right in its path. The overripe fruit hit him square in the chest and splattered over his clothes. Frodo doubled over laughing at his dumbfounded expression, but the next instant something soft, wet, and sticky smacked into the side of his face. He looked up to see Curley grinning wickedly at him, a challenging gleam in his eye.

And the battle was on! Grapes flew thick and furious and the hobbits were soon covered in fruity gore, a pair of bloodied warriors with crimson-stained clothes and skin. The ground became slippery with squashed fruit as they laughed and staggered, smashing grapes into each other's hair and lobbing missiles that went increasingly wide of their mark. The geese followed happily in their wake, gobbling ammunition as quickly as it fell.

A crow, lighting on a nearby arbor, seemed to jeer raucously at them. Frodo threw a grape at it but missed so badly that it didn't even stir from its perch.

"I guess he knows he has naught to fear from you!" laughed Curley.

Frodo glared at him. "I suppose you can do better?"

"Aye, I reckon I can at that!" Taking careful aim, Curley scored a direct hit and the crow plummeted to the ground like a stone. They stared at it in stunned silence.

"I think you've killed it, Curley," Frodo murmured.

The soft-hearted boy's eyes filled with tears. "So help me, Frodo, I didn't mean to! 'Twas only a grape."

Frodo started over to examine the victim, but at his approach the crow roused itself and flapped groggily away. He gazed after it, puzzled, and saw a number of crows flying about erratically. Another bird fell from an arbor, this time for no apparent reason. The geese were acting queerly too, wandering in aimless circles and bumping into each other. Frodo rubbed his eyes, feeling suddenly woozy. Everything seemed to be spinning around him and he clutched at the arbor to steady himself. His last clear memory was of Curley's voice somewhere behind him mumbling, "I don't feel so good!"

. . .

It was the perfect night for a bonfire: mild and still, a hunter's moon on the rise. In the master bedchamber of Brandy Hall Rory was laying out his Harvest King robes and crown as Saradoc looked on disapprovingly.

"Sure you'll not change your mind, Sara? It's a right good time you'll be missing!"

"I'm quite sure, Father. And what's more you should miss it too."

"Nonsense, boy, for time out of mind the Master of the Hall has been Harvest King on Blotmath's Eve, as you know full well, and I ain't about to break with tradition!"

"But it's so undignified," protested Sara. "For someone as concerned as you are with Shirefolk's opinion of Buckland, I'm surprised you would do anything so likely to encourage their thinking us queer and backwards as celebrating Blotmath's Eve!"

Rory sighed; they had much the same conversation every year. "Sara, I'm not saying you don't have Buckland's best interests at heart, but sometimes you're too forward-thinking for your own good! Those uppity Shirefolk may choose to forget the old ways, but before hobbits ever had a Shire, or a King's Calendar, they had a year that died at harvest and was born anew come Blotmath. And so long as I'm Master of Buckland, the memory of those days will be honored!"

Setting his crown firmly on his head and drawing his robes about him, he swept regally out of the room.

. . .

Most of the hobbits of Bucklebury and the surrounding farmlands had turned out for Blotmath's Eve Bonfire. With the day's winemaking activities successfully completed, everyone was in the mood to celebrate. By dusk the huge bonfire was lit, musicians were tuning their instruments, and children were chasing each other around the fire in costumes and masks.

A shout went up as the Harvest King made his entrance. Resplendent in his trailing cloak of woven corn husks and his crown of stag's antlers, Rory strode slowly through the crowd, nodding to acknowledge the bows and curtsies on either side, and seated himself on an elaborately carved wooden chair. With his arrival festivities could officially begin.

A hush fell over the crowd as a tall female hobbit bearing a staff stepped forward and bowed low before Rory.

Mistress Feralia Mugwort was the most renowned—some said notorious—healer in Buckland. She was originally from Bree, which straight off marked her as different, an Outsider. No one knew how old she was and it was impossible to judge from her appearance. Though her face was smooth and unlined, her long, flowing hair was silvery grey. Her eyes were a light brown flecked with gold, and seemed able to look deep within you, discerning your heart's secret fears and desires.

Some whispered that she dabbled in sorcery; some hinted darkly that it was more than dabbling. Her supporters maintained it was simply that her skill at healing was so extraordinary as to appear magical. But whatever they thought of her, most Bucklanders were quick to seek her out when the need arose. And none disputed her reputation as the best storyteller from Bree to the Marish, her knowledge of old tales and lore being equal to her mastery of healing herbs and roots.

She said now, "Lord of the Harvest and people of Buckland, I bid you good Blotmath's Eve! What does it please you to hear this night?"

"The Winter of the White Wolves!"

"The Curse of the Barrow Wight!"

"The Stone Circle of Doom!"

"The Adventures of Tom Bombadil!"

But there was only one story they really wanted to hear on Blotmath's Eve, as Feralia well knew, and shouts of "The Bunce Brothers!" soon drowned out all other requests. She looked questioningly at Rory, who nodded. "So be it." Feralia stood a moment with head bowed and eyes closed. Then she whirled around to face the crowd and thumped the ground with her storyteller's staff. Any lingering murmurs and children's chatter were immediately silenced as she cried in a clear, ringing voice:

"Listen! For I will tell you now the tragic tale of Malo and Moro Bunce and the fair Tourmaline, who lived in the days when the Shire was new. It was a dark time, the Plague Time. Many were lost, women and children most of all. A dearth of hobbit maids gave rise to fierce rivalries and bitter feuds, the like of which had not before been seen in these parts.

"But none was more bitter—nor more deadly—than the quarrel between the Bunce brothers of Oatbarton in the Northfarthing. Twins they were, and none could tell them apart: both tall and fair of face, with hair raven-dark and keen grey eyes.

"Malo was a mighty hunter, roaming the Bindbole Wood with his bow and his knife and his great wolfhound. It was said that he sent game at times to the King's house at Lake Evendim, away beyond the North Moors, and that the hound was a gift from the King himself.

"Moro was a smith and craftsman of great renown. Some said he had learned his art from the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains away to the West. Others said it was the Elves who once dwelt in these lands who had taught him their secrets. But all agreed that his skill was unsurpassed among Hobbits.

"They were alike in looks only: Malo being proud and quick-tempered, while Moro was quiet and brooding. Yet never were brothers closer than these two, and they swore that no strife would ever part them. Alas! They did not look for the coming of a day when their words would be forsworn. But come it did with the arrival in Oatbarton of Tourmaline Took. She was the fairest maid in the Four Farthings, with hair like a golden waterfall tumbling down her back and eyes like the summer sky, possessing a grace of movement that was a delight to see.

"Her mother was a weaver and dyer of cloth who had come to town to earn her trade, as her husband was dead and she had no other means of support. For in those days, good people, the Tooks were not yet a rich and powerful family. While Tourmaline was a help to her mother in many ways, she was never allowed to dip the cloth lest the dye sully her lovely skin. But late each evening she went to the well on the edge of town to draw water for the dye vats.

"Tourmaline was courted eagerly by many suitors, but none proved more fervent than Malo and Moro Bunce. At first each pursued her unbeknownst to the other, and this was the first secret ever to come between them. But one day Moro saw his brother walking with Tourmaline, and marked well how he looked at her. That night in their smial he confronted Malo and all was revealed. Hot words were exchanged and at last Malo departed in anger, his hound at his heels. From that day forward the Bunce brothers renounced their bonds of love and kinship and declared themselves brothers no more."

Gasps and murmurs went up from the audience. Of all the tale's terrible deeds, none seemed more evil or incredible than this breaking of family ties. The North Farthing setting made it more plausible, for while no Bucklander could ever be imagined committing such a heinous act, however long ago, there was no telling what those queer Shirefolk were capable of in the dark, uncertain past. (It must be reported, however, that the version of this story told in the Shire took place on the banks of the Brandywine.)

Once quiet was restored Feralia continued, "The last time the brothers appeared willingly together was to confront Tourmaline and demand that she choose between them. But alas! For she loved them both and could not choose. She sent them away with a promise to give her answer on the morrow. And then, good people, she made a fateful decision that would bring grief on them all.

"At daybreak she sent a note to each at their separate abodes, saying that he and he alone was her own true love. To Malo she wrote that he should meet her that night when she went to draw water from the well. And to Moro, that he should do the same one night hence.

"On the appointed nights she gave to each a token of her love: to Malo a scarf of finest silk from about her graceful neck, to Moro a velvet ribbon that tied back her golden hair. Both of these were deep crimson, which was of all colors her favorite. And each brother swore to her that never while he lived would he part with this token.

"So for a time Tourmaline's ruse succeeded, and she met her lovers by turns for many a moonlight tryst, thinking herself clever indeed. And when Malo, or Moro, depending on the night, gazed down at the lovely maiden lying soft in his embrace each thought himself happier than any hobbit that lived.

"But greed and deceit have been the downfall of many, and Tourmaline was no exception. One night Malo's passion for her burned so fiercely that he went to the well even though it was not his night to do so. And great was his amazement and wrath to find his brother there before him—though no greater than Moro's own anger and surprise on seeing _him_.

"It took but a few words to discover how things stood, and well might you suppose, good people, that on learning of Tourmaline's ill use of them the brothers would join in spurning her love, and reconcile with one another. But such was the strength of her charms that each thought of nothing but how to do away with his rival.

'It seems Tourmaline has chosen one lover too many,' said Moro, his voice soft but menacing.

Malo looked at him darkly and spoke his last words to his brother: 'Ere this night ends she will have but one.'

'So be it,' answered Moro. And he lunged at his brother and seized him by the throat.

Then Malo drew his hunting knife, and lo! It was a blade of fine and intricate workmanship, and had been wrought by Moro as a gift for the brother he loved. At the sight of it now turned on him Moro was all the more incensed, and redoubled his attack.

And so they strove, brother against brother, locked in deadly combat on the very brink of the well. But so evenly matched were they that none could have said which way the fight would go.

"Now strange though it seem the hound, that would have braved a pack of wolves for its master, did not come to Malo's aid. For like Tourmaline, it too loved both brothers, having been raised by them since it was a pup. Whimpering in sore distress, it jumped at them as they fought, and became entangled with their legs. And thus unbalanced they staggered back against the well, swayed on the edge for a heartbeat, then still clutching one another plunged down into the water's cold embrace.

"As chance would have it Tourmaline was that night delayed, as her mother had taken ill and for the first time she had been required to dye the cloth. When at last she hurried to the well it was long past the appointed hour, and her fair arms were stained crimson to the elbows.

"Upon her arrival, great was Tourmaline's distress to find that Moro was not there, and greater still her fear to see instead the dog of Malo lying forlorn by the well. She paced fretfully to and fro, but Moro came not and her sense of foreboding grew. Finally she could tarry no longer, but let down the bucket to draw water and return home. And when the bucket was brought up, good people, Tourmaline screamed and fainted dead away. And the great hound threw back its head and howled.

"When villagers heard the cries and came running to the place, they found Tourmaline lying insensible on the ground, the dog at her side. In the upturned bucket lay a scarf and a ribbon, and the water that pooled around them was red as blood. And by this did they discover the fate of the Bunce brothers.

"The fair Tourmaline woke never again, and within three days she was dead. Some said she was stricken by the plague, others that she died of grief. And they said it was the blood of the two brothers on her hands that had stained them so, even in death. But still the hound guarded the well, though the brothers were laid in their graves, and there it remained until it too was dead. The well was shunned by the villagers from that day forth."

Feralia paused, and for a moment the only sound was the hiss and crackle of the fire. No one moved, or even breathed. Then she gazed darkly upon her audience and said, "Yet even now, those whose paths take them by wells on moonlit eves see at times a fair maiden with woeful countenance. Or perchance 'tis the hound they see, its howls echoing in the night. But the most dreadful sight of all is that of two grim and bloodied figures, who struggle on the brink of the well or slowly approach the hapless passerby uttering fearful groans. And the night they are most oft to be seen is Blotmath's Eve, when restless souls travel once more among us."

When Feralia finished speaking there was a heavy silence among the gathered hobbits. Some sighed and wiped away a tear, while others shifted uneasily and glanced behind them into the deepening shadows outside the circle of firelight.

Shaking off the feeling of dread that had settled over him, Rory sprang to his feet and called out, "The tale is told, let the feast begin!" The mood was broken, the hobbits cheered, and the Blotmath's Eve revelries commenced in earnest.

. . .

Biddy Twofoot, the Brandy Hall laundress, pushed a straggling wisp of grey hair out of her eyes as she bent down to pull another sheet from the basket. At least there was no wind, she thought, taking a clothes pin from between her teeth and securing the wet linen to the line. Made her job just that little bit easier when she didn't have to wrestle with flapping sheets…

Snatches of music and laughter drifted through the cool twilight, coming from the direction of Bonfire Hill. Biddy sniffed. She had begged off the festivities, citing the large mounds of washing to tend to. Let the others carry on like fools, she was too busy and too old for such nonsense. She'd never had much truck with Blommath's Eve anyhow, with all its malarkey about spirits and offerings. Oh, she'd heard the tales of strange sightings and mysterious goings-on, but all that could be put down to the fancies of faunts and the over-indulgence of pub-goers. Let the dead rest in peace; they had no call to go gallivanting about the countryside, let alone any need for the fruits of the harvest…

"Boo!"

Biddy jumped at the sound, almost dropping a sheet. She spun around to find three small hobbits doing their best to look menacing in black cloaks and crudely painted masks.

"Be off with you now! Go find someone as scares easier," she snapped. They rushed off giggling, and Biddy just shook her head. It seemed there was no avoiding such foolishness this night. She turned back to her work, anxious to finish up and return to the Hall. If not for the full moon she would have been forced to stop long ago, but as it was she had enough light to get the last of the laundry hung before going home to supper.

She heard another noise behind her, and turned in real annoyance this time. "All right you young scamps, I thought I told you—" But the words died on her lips as she stared, open-mouthed, at the eerie white shapes flitting among the clothes lines. Just as she felt a scream rising in her throat, the nearest of them careened into a bush and in the process managed to divest itself of what she suddenly recognized as one of her sheets.

"What in the name of…?" The spectral being was now revealed as a large goose that waddled unsteadily toward her, honking rather plaintively. She saw that they were in fact all geese, which for some reason had blundered into her clothes lines and entangled themselves in the linens. "Shoo! Shoo!" she cried, flapping her apron at them until they slowly moved off.

"My nice clean sheets!" She surveyed the damage in dismay: some half-dozen newly soiled linens. There was nothing for it but to wash them again. "Just when I was near done, too!" She gathered them up, cursing and grumbling. It seemed even the birds and beasts were taken by Blommath's Eve madness. "And you're not much better, Biddy Twofoot, carrying on like a flibbertigibbet yourself, all on account of some daft geese!"

A breeze gusted up as Biddy trudged to the well, lugging a bucket in each hand. The weather's changing, she thought gloomily, though she would have known it well enough, breeze or no: her every joint was aching. If only the rain would hold off until she could take the washing down on the morrow…

As she reached the well a cloud scudded across the moon, plunging everything into darkness. Somewhere in the distance a dog howled. She shivered—from the growing chill, of course, what else could it be? Groping blindly for the well chain, she hooked it onto a bucket by feel and began turning the rusty crank to lower it until she heard a splash far below.

She had almost hauled it back up again when she thought she heard something over the slow clanking of the chain. She paused, and heard it more clearly now: a low, keening moan. Odd that, she thought uneasily, how the wind could sound just like a person at times. But the wind had died down and in the sudden, unbearable stillness she heard another sound, small but very distinct: that of a twig snapping.

Slowly, Biddy raised her head. The moon sailed out of the clouds and two forms emerged in its pale light: hobbits they seemed, but terrible to behold as they lurched toward her haggard and staring. Biddy's nerveless fingers slipped off the crank and the bucket hurtled unchecked back down the well, the chain spinning wildly. One dreadful figure stretched out a blood-drenched arm as it came and cried hoarsely, "Help us!" Biddy, who had stood transfixed, seemed suddenly roused by these words. Throwing her apron over her head and shrieking uncontrollably, she rushed off into the night.

. . .

The wine and ale were flowing freely on up Bonfire Hill, and the crowd grew ever louder and more exuberant. They roared their approval when the first Harvest Dancers appeared in their masks of carved, painted wood and hollowed gourds: some like skulls, some like animals, or the sun and the moon. Two had teamed up to form the front and back halves of a great bull that pranced and tossed its head. "Bandobras!" the hobbits shouted in delight. Some were on stilts beneath their robes and wore towering headdresses of woven straw, making them stand as much as six or seven feet tall.

They approached the Harvest King's throne in pairs, bowed, then parted to formed a circle around the fire. Four burly hobbits stepped forward and, lifting Rory on his chair, carried him thrice around the circle, the dancers following in procession to the music of pipes, horns, drums, and cymbals. When Rory was returned to his place of honor, the music grew faster and the dancers began to dip and whirl.

Now and again as they moved around the circle a hobbit would leave the crowd to join them, bearing bounty from his fields. Many farmers were cloaked and masked in animal skins and heads: rams, goats, even the occasional wolf or bear. These costumes had been handed down from father to son for time out of mind. Each in turn danced forward and hurled his harvest gift into the heart of the fire, the crowd joining him in shouting, "Offered!"

A great straw figure, representing the year past (by the Old Reckoning) was being tossed about by the crowd; soon it too would be thrown onto the bonfire. Goodwives and maids stood at the ready with their ember pots, waiting for their turn to join the dance and receive the glowing coals from which to relight their hearth fires. The pipes skirled wildly, the drums throbbed, the dancers spun and leaped.

Excitement had reached a fever pitch when a piercing scream tore through the air and brought everything to a dead halt. Biddy Twofoot broke through the circle and stumbled toward Rory, wild eyed and babbling hysterically. About the only words anyone could make out clearly were, "The Bunce brothers!"

"I'm sorry Biddy, you missed Feralia's story," said Rory, quite taken aback. "But you're not to late too join in the merrymaking…"

"No no! I _saw_ the Bunce brothers! Just now, down by the well. They came after me…it was horrible!" she sobbed on his shoulder.

A startled murmur rose among the hobbits. Glances were exchanged, eyebrows raised, a few nervous chuckles were heard, but for the most part everyone looked at Rory, waiting to see his reaction. He hesitated. On the one hand, such a claim could not be taken lightly on this of all nights. And yet…if he disbanded the gathering and Saradoc found out why, he would never hear the end of it. It seemed a shame, too, to cut things short when everyone was having such a good time.

"There now, Biddy," he soothed, patting her awkwardly on the back. "Perhaps you've been working too hard…why don't you let Barden here fetch you a nice mug of beer and I wager you'll be feeling much better in no time."

Biddy just stared at him reproachfully and quavered, "Believe it or not as you please Master, but mark my words them brothers is walking among us this night, so beware!"

Rory looked helplessly around.

Feralia stepped forward and put a comforting arm around the trembling laundress. "Now Biddy, why don't you come over here and tell me exactly what you saw?" she said kindly. "I'm always interested in learning more about the Bunce brothers."

Biddy allowed herself to be led away and Rory breathed a sigh of relief. He signaled the musicians to begin playing again, but before they could do so more screaming broke out on the far side of the circle. The crowd drew back in terror to let pass two ghastly figures, hollow-eyed and deathly pale. They staggered toward the fire, their disheveled garments and matted hair dark with blood. Farmers brandished pitchforks and knives, mothers drew their children behind them, old gammers muttered charms to ward off evil. Biddy took one look and fell down in a faint.

As the musicians and dancers scattered around him, Rory stared in mingled shock, horror, and fascination. "Can't you do something, Feralia?" he muttered over his shoulder.

"Nay, lord!" The healer's eyes glittered gold in the firelight. "'Tis the duty of the Harvest King to defend his people."

Rory swallowed hard, nodded, drew himself up to his full height and pointed an only slightly trembling finger at the apparitions. "Begone, ye spirits of darkness!" he intoned in the deepest voice he could muster. "Begone and trouble us not, for we have made the requisite offerings and ye have no claim on us."

One figure took several faltering steps, then swayed and collapsed. Encouraged, Rory looked hopefully at the other. It, however, uttered a blood-chilling moan and continued to advance slowly toward him. With a supreme effort he stood his ground, took a deep breath and began again: "Begone foul spirit—"

"I say, isn't that Master Frodo?" whispered Feralia from behind him.

"_What?_" Rory started and took a closer look; at that moment the figure stepped full into the light. "Frodo Baggins! I should ha' known this was one o' your tricks!" he roared. "You young scoundrel! What have you got to say for yourself?"

Frodo opened his mouth and seemed to be struggling to speak, but no words came forth.

Some angry mutters—and not a few snickers—could be heard from the crowd.

"Well, we're all waiting…out with it, boy!"

With a last despairing groan, Frodo was suddenly and violently ill down the front of the Harvest King's robes.

. . .

Once the commotion died down, it was generally agreed that Frodo and Curley could not really be blamed for the incident, since they had been unaware of the tendency of late-harvest grapes to ferment on the vine, or that split grape skins were a telltale sign of this process. Even Biddy Twofoot forgave them eventually, though it was long before she would venture out to the clothes lines at dusk without a stout club clutched firmly in hand. The geese all made a complete recovery.

Still, Frodo tried to avoid Rory when he was well enough to get up the next day, and when they did cross paths his uncle scowled at him and muttered something about hogtying.

As it happened, the late harvest of 1383 produced the finest dessert wine in the history of Buckland viticulture. When it was bottled Rory gave it the fanciful name of "Brandy Hall Vineyards 'Bonfire Spirits' Vintage 1383." It was much sought after throughout Buckland and the Shire; indeed Bilbo Baggins himself was so fond of it that he ordered several cases. He served the last of it at the infamous Party in 1401, as Rory was pleased to note, and after Bilbo's disappearance he called for Frodo to send it round again.

End Part Three

* * *

Author's notes:

Rory's grapes were infected with _botrytis cinerea_, or noble rot, a parasitic fungus or mold that produces the greatest sweet, late harvest wines of the world. Late harvest grapes not affected by this mold may split and then ferment on the vine.

Breon Briarwood – Yes, young Frodo is a character all right! I was always intrigued by Farmer Maggot's assessment of him in FOTR, and wondered what else he might have gotten up to in his "wild youth" besides mushroom stealing.

Endymion2 – I wasn't sure how well this story's mix of angst and humor would go over, so glad to know you're enjoying it so far. Yes, that was meant to be a phoenix, but I'm not quite sure how to explain the symbolism of that passage…maybe I'll try at the story's conclusion. As for my "not sweet" Frodo, I think my inspiration is E. Nesbit, whose wonderful books always featured children who were anything BUT sweet!


	4. Flood Tide

Rating: PG for mild implied violence in some chapters.  
Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Tolkien estate; I am making no money from them.  
Responses to reviews at the end of this chapter.

* * *

The Terror of Buckland

_By Inkling_

"I recollect the time when young Frodo Baggins was one of the worst young rascals of Buckland."  
- Farmer Maggot

Part Four: Flood Tide 

The River was life. Brown and benign, it wound lazily through the countryside, nurturing crops and livestock, woodlands and game, bringing prosperity and plenty to the little folk who clustered on its banks. Fishing, swimming, boating, commerce: the River provided well.

But what the River gave, it could also take away. Winter storms brought raging torrents that smashed docks and tore away trees, and floodwaters that surged over banks, leaving devastation in their wake. Sometimes, the River was death.

. . .

It was Frodo's earliest memory, a jumble of images and emotions that seemed more dream than waking reality. Indeed it visited him often in the form of a dream, causing him to start up trembling in the dark.

The thing he recalled most clearly about the day was the River itself: shimmering, glorious, ever-changing as the light played across the rippling surface, seducing him with its beauty and immensity, cooling the breeze that caressed his skin, light and teasing. Entranced, he gazed at the River and desired it with a fierce, consuming passion. It was not so much a wish to possess it, for the very young make no distinction between self and other. Frodo wanted to be one with the River—be with it, in it, of it. And he would not rest until it was so.

They were picnicking some way upriver from the Hall: he and his parents and various relatives. The grown-ups were laughing and talking, taking their ease on the beautiful spring day. Only Frodo's mother was subdued, seeming tired and moving more slowly than usual. But that hadn't stopped her from keeping a close eye on him, grabbing and pulling him back every time he got too close the water's edge. He became quite cross with her, and all the more intent on his goal.

Finally his chance came—Aunt Asphodel had seized his mother's arm and was chattering away about something, diverting her attention from Frodo. It was only for an instant, but that was all he needed. In a flash he was running for the River and joyfully flung himself headlong to meet it.

The intense thrill that swept through him as the water closed over his head was unlike anything he had ever felt and he forgot all else, even the need to breathe, as he drifted slowly down through a mysterious, enchanted realm of light and shadows, hazy brown shot through with gold. He was dimly aware of someone screaming, but the sound was muffled and distant, seeming of no importance.

Then it was over. As swiftly as a dream fades at waking, the spell was broken by a great splash, and now he did try to breathe, and panicked when he couldn't. As he flailed in the suddenly roiling water he felt strong, slender arms wrap around his waist and pull him rapidly upwards, and bursting through the shining curtain of light he was thrust into the ordinary world again. He coughed and sputtered as his mother pushed him onto the bank and into the waiting arms of his father, who looked more frightened than Frodo had ever seen him.

A dozen hands reached down to help his mother out of the water. Frodo wept inconsolably, but no one understood that it was from frustration and loss at being torn so abruptly from the River's embrace. He turned away from his mother, feeling betrayed and cheated.

Back at the smial he was whisked off to a bath by his aunts; his mother was nowhere to be seen. By now the allure of the River was beginning to fade and his mother's arms seemed suddenly much more desirable than they had just a short while before. As soon as he could escape he ran down the passage to her chambers, but to his great shock and distress he found the door barred to him. Aunt Asphodel put her head out and said only that his mother was ill and couldn't see him just now. There was something strange in her voice that he didn't understand but that filled him with dread. All through the afternoon he hovered outside her room as various female relatives hurried in and out, seeming not to notice him or if they did, glancing at him with dour expressions.

A sudden sharp cry of pain rent the air, filling Frodo with panic. The next time the door opened he pushed past an aunt and dashed inside. He had one brief, terrifying glimpse of his mother lying still and silent against the pillows, eyes closed and face very pale, and of bright red blood staining white sheets before he was seized by the scruff of the neck and hauled back out again. He sank to the floor, too overwhelmed now even to cry. Something was horribly wrong, and it was all his fault, he was certain. Perhaps the River was angry that his mother had snatched him away from it…and now it was taking _her_ away…

The door opened and closed again quietly. His face was buried in his arms, so he didn't know his father was there until he smelled the familiar, comforting scent of pipeweed and felt the rough caress of woolen waistcoat against his skin as he was lifted up.

"Don't fret little one, your Mama's going to be all right!" his father whispered, stroking his hair. Though his voice broke a little as he said this and Frodo could see tears standing in his eyes—his father, weeping!—he smiled and tightened his arms around him. "I promise I'll not leave you until she's better."

And so the two of them remained throughout the long night, huddled together in the cold stone passage outside the door. In the morning Frodo was allowed to go in to his mother and she seemed herself again, only strangely sad and quiet. Frodo's love for her was now mingled with a constant anxiety, and he was determined that nothing would ever take her from him again.

. . .

As soon as he was old enough his mother lost no time in teaching him to swim, while his father watched uneasily from the bank. Frodo was soon completely at home in the water, spending as much time in the River as out every summer. He could swim across easily, and took special delight in racing the ferry—sometimes swimming in circles around it when it was piloted by one of his more lethargic relatives.

"I love the River," he said dreamily one day, as he and his mother lay sunning on the bank after a long swim.

"Don't ever say that, Frodo!" Primula rebuked him.

Frodo looked up, startled and a little frightened by the intensity in her voice. "Why not, Mama?" he faltered.

She reached out and gently stroked his cheek in reassurance. "What have I always told you about the River, dearest one?" she asked, more softly now but holding his gaze with her own.

"Never—never underestimate it," said Frodo hesitantly.

"Yes, but it's more than that," she said after a pause, finally lowering her eyes to look out over the water. "Above all, Frodo, you must never _trust_ the River…no matter how kindly or gentle it may seem, it is no friend."

Frodo did not fully understand her words until one balmy midsummer's night when the moon hung so low in the sky it looked close enough to touch. It was a festive party at dinner, for his parents were celebrating their wedding anniversary and Gorbadoc and Mirabella has gone all out.

Frodo remembered every detail of the evening: what they ate, his uncles' jokes, the sound of the River lapping placidly against the dock below the open windows of Brandy Hall. His mother wore her best silk dress that rustled softly when she moved, its deep blue color setting off her eyes.

The meal was over and the toasts all made when Drogo pushed back his chair and sighed contentedly. "I thank you, Father Gorbadoc and Mother Mirabella, for a truly splendid feast. I don't know when I've enjoyed a meal more, or will again." His eyes drifted over to the windows, and he added, as if it was a casual afterthought, "It's a fine night for boating…what say we take a dory out on the River, Prim?" Everyone stared at him, startled. Even Primula looked surprised.

"I've never known you to be overfond of boats, Drogo," drawled Rory, who enjoyed teasing his "landlubber" brother-in-law.

"Well, I, ah, just thought, what with the moonlight, you know, that it might be…" Drogo trailed off helplessly.

"_Romantic_, is that what you're tryin' to say?" laughed Gorbadoc. "Well now, maybe I see your point at that, you old rogue! After all it's a bit too early to turn in, and truth be told it can be a mite difficult finding a bit of privacy in this smial," he added with a wink.

Already uncomfortable, Drogo was now actually blushing. Frodo looked at him, puzzled.

"Difficult? I'd call it well nigh impossible!" grumbled Esmeralda, looking pointedly at Saradoc who just shrugged and rolled his eyes.

"I think it's a lovely idea, Drogo dear," said Primula, smiling at him.

"May I go too?" asked Frodo eagerly, the finer points of the conversation lost on him.

His parents exchanged a glance. Drogo cleared his throat. "Well now, Frodo lad…"

"Not this time, dear," his mother said gently. It's nearly your bed-time now. But I promise to take you out first thing tomorrow."

Though time may have embellished the memory, Frodo always thought afterwards that his mother had never looked so radiant as she did that night, standing in the doorway with moonlight picking out the silver strands in her hair, the fire casting a soft glow over her lovely features and dancing in her eyes. Drogo looked proud of her, his arm wrapped possessively around her waist as they said their good nights to the family.

Rory called out, "Mind you take a good, sound boat, Prim! That husband of yours ate as much as was good for him tonight, and then some! You don't want to be shipping any water on account of the extra load!"

Everyone laughed at that, including Drogo. "Good night, my boy," he said, ruffling Frodo's hair. Mind you get right to sleep now…no waiting up for us, hear?"

"Yes, Papa," said Frodo, feeling a little forlorn.

His mother must have sensed it, because instead of a quick kiss on the cheek she knelt down and pulled him into her arms for a tight hug. "Don't be sad, love," she whispered in his ear. "We shan't be gone long. I'll look in on you when we get back, all right?"

Frodo clung to her a moment longer before reluctantly letting go. "I love you," he murmured.

"Mama's boy! Mama's boy!" tittered his cousin Cederic. Frodo ignored him and watched his parents as they went out, arm-in-arm, into the night.

"It's downright unseemly how those two carry on like a pair of tweens," sniffed Amaranth after they'd gone.

"Fiddlesticks, Am, you're just jealous, seeing how you never snared a husband yourself," said Asphodel tartly.

"Oh, jealous is it? And Rufus is such a cooing lovebird that you'd surely have no cause to be jealous yourself, now would you?" her sister retorted.

Asphodel's husband Rufus harrumphed at being dragged into such a shrewish exchange.

"Prim is prettier than the both of you put together, so why shouldn't Drogo appreciate it?" smirked their youngest brother Dinodas.

"May I be excused, Grandfather?" said Frodo quickly, not wanting to hear any more.

"Aye lad," sighed Gorbadoc, weary himself of his daughters' bickering. "Good night to you Frodo, and pleasant dreams."

Frodo never lost his fascination with the River, though from that night forward the desire was mixed with an equal share of hate. In the summer it seemed to mock him with its gentle, lazy current as if to ask, _How could I harm anyone?_ During the winter it issued a deadly challenge in its wild fury: _Defy me if you dare_…

And he could never rid himself of the notion that it took his parents as recompense for being cheated of him…

. . .

Longfathers Day  
2 November, 1383

With the last of the harvest in, the Brandy Hall school was now in session. It was a small, one-room affair, attended primarily by the scions of the Brandybuck clan, along with the eldest sons of some of the more prominent local farmers. Despite Rory's own lack of schooling, at Gilda's insistence he had retained a tutor for their son when he was young. As a result Saradoc was more enlightened than his father regarding the value of education, and this year he had quietly revived the school that had languished neglected since Rory became Master.

Frodo chafed at having to attend school, feeling there was nothing he could learn there that he had not already gleaned from his own reading. However, attendance was required until age 16. Saradoc said he couldn't make an exception for Frodo without setting a bad precedent for the rest of the family; as it was many of the students were there only reluctantly. However, he promised Frodo that after next year he could be the schoolmaster's assistant.

Falstaff Goodbody, Brandy Hall's head librarian and official Buckland historian, also served as schoolmaster. He and Frodo enjoyed a very cordial relationship, in fact he sometimes thrilled the young hobbit by consulting him on matters of Elvish lore and letting him help with research on the history of Eriador. During school sessions they had an understanding whereby Falstaff usually let him sit in the back of the classroom and quietly read a book of his own choosing.

Today Frodo's mood was as black as the lowering clouds he could see through the schoolroom window. Rory had been right, as always, about the weather: the first storm of the season was brewing and the air was still and breathless.

That morning he had attended the Longfathers Day ceremony at the cemetery, an event he always dreaded. While he found it comforting to visit his mother's and father's graves alone, when he could sit peacefully and think about them, or even talk to them, it was a very different matter to be there amidst crowds of hobbits paying their respects to departed loved ones. Most of them were there to honor gaffers and gammers who had passed away peacefully at the end of long, productive lives. There were precious few like him, a faunt mourning the untimely death of his parents.

As usual, he had been baited surreptitiously by Otis Sandheaver and his friends. "Did you see your parents this Blommath's Eve, Baggins?" whispered Otis.

"Give my love to Tourmaline Took," sniggered his mate Clive Underhill. Surrounded by relatives, there was nothing Frodo could do but glare.

Old Falstaff was down with a touch of influenza, and his young assistant Alfred Tunnelly was teaching in his stead. Alfred was 21 with greasy hair and pockmarked skin, and he hid his adolescent insecurity behind a strict, domineering manner. He felt threatened by Frodo who, though younger, knew far more than he, and he never passed up an opportunity to "put the young show-off in his place." In the middle of a lesson on the founding of Buckland, he noticed Frodo staring out the window.

"Master Baggins! If you do any more wool gathering, you'll soon have enough for a fine winter coat!" Alfred's tone was jocular and the other students laughed, but his eyes flashed a cold warning that Frodo, in his present dark mood, chose to ignore.

"Then at least I'll get something useful out of this class!" he retorted. A hush fell over the room.

A muscle in Alfred's jaw twitched. His eyes fell on the book propped in front of Frodo and when he spoke again all pretense of geniality had vanished. "Is that the history of Buckland you're reading?"

"No."

"No, _sir_!"

"No sir," mumbled Frodo.

"Perhaps you think you can better instruct us all on the history of Buckland?"

Frodo was silent.

"Come on then, don't be modest! Why don't you start by telling us the year it was first inhabited?"

"By Hobbits, Men, or Elves?" asked Frodo loftily.

"What?"

"Well surely you know, _sir_, that we were hardly the first settlers in these parts. It was during the First Age of Middle Earth that Elves would have passed through the area on their way to the western shores, and some may have dwelt here for a time. But the first recorded inhabitants—"

Annoyed at being shown up in front of the class, Alfred hastily cut Frodo off: "This is a history class, not story-hour, Master Baggins. Have you been spending too much time in the nursery with Mummy?"

Frodo's face went white as he stared speechlessly at Alfred. A sudden, blinding flash lit the room for an instant, and the charged silence was broken by the low rumble of approaching thunder.

Now Alfred Tunnelly may have been an overbearing and insensitive hobbit, but he was not a particularly cruel one and his remark had been made in thoughtlessness, not malice. He belatedly realized what he had said and looked uncomfortable, but was not about to back down. "I'll take that book, if you please."

Frodo didn't move.

"Master Baggins, bring me the book now!"

Slowly, Frodo rose and advanced toward the teacher. The others held their breaths and even Alfred had to will himself not to step back a pace when Frodo reached him. But Frodo merely handed over the book and returned to his seat.

"You may all put away your books and take out your slates; we will now practice our sums."

Frodo sat gazing down at his slate, Alfred's words a meaningless drone in his ears as he struggled to master his emotions. Slowly he regained a measure of composure. He picked up his chalk and with a small, furtive smile began to draw. After a few minutes Halimac Brandybuck, who sat next to Frodo, looked over at his companion's slate and snickered.

Suddenly Alfred was standing over them. "Perhaps we can all enjoy whatever it is that you find so amusing, Master Brandybuck!" His glance fell on the slate, which Frodo had made no attempt to hide. On it was a remarkably like portrait of Alfred, save that his eyes, ears and teeth had been exaggerated to resemble the features of a goblin. Alfred flushed and when he found his voice it shook with a barely contained fury. "Master Baggins, Master Brandybuck, you will go outside to the wood pile and wait for me there. And while you're waiting, you can each cut a long willow switch."

When they reached the woodpile Frodo didn't even slow down, but strode on toward the River. "Well, are you coming?" he snapped over his shoulder at Halimac.

"But…Mr. Tunnelly said to wait for him here!"

Not bothering to reply, Frodo just shot him a contemptuous glance and kept walking.

After a moment's hesitation, Hal hurried along behind him. He didn't ask where they were going; he thought he could guess.

By the time they reached the ferry and cast off, the rain was coming down in earnest and the crossing proved slow and difficult. More than once the quickening current threatened to wrest the poles from their grasp. They reached the far side at last, and tying up the raft set off for Bamfurlong Farm. Upon their arrival, however, they discovered that their trek had been in vain—all the crops were in and the fields barren. The mushroom plots were a lake of mud.

As they slogged wearily back through the stubble of the cornfields, Frodo couldn't resist stopping to peer over the wall of the bull pasture. Bandobras, looking thoroughly wet and miserable, was standing under his tree with his head down, and paid him no heed.

Sodden and dispirited, Frodo and Halimac were glad to finally see the ferry dock looming ahead through the slanting downpour. But when they reached the water's edge, they stood staring in shock and dismay. The River was now surging and swollen and the raft was gone, torn loose from its mooring.

"Save us," groaned Hal. "Why did I ever go along with you, Frodo Baggins? A thrashing from Mr. Tunnelly would be a right treat next to what's going to happen to us when we get caught on the wrong side of the River come nightfall!"

"I'm not going to be caught," said Frodo quietly.

"What do you mean? You know there's no way across for miles in either direction!"

Frodo did not reply, but only gazed down at the churning, muddy water. He felt anger coursing through him, as strong and unstoppable as the flood tide itself: a heady, potent draught distilled from all the grief, pain, and confusion of the past three years…

Anger at the River for this latest betrayal. Anger at the clumsy gibes of Alfred Tunnelly and the relentless bullying of Otis Sandheaver. Anger at his Brandybuck relatives for what they could not be, or give him. Anger at Bilbo for living too far away to offer any real comfort. Anger at his parents for dying. And above all, anger at himself for being powerless to alter the unhappy circumstances of his life.

Still he looked down at the River, and the old feelings of hatred and desire flared up as strongly as ever. He peeled off his jacket and weskit.

"Frodo, what are you doing?"

Perhaps this one thing lay in his power—to challenge and defeat the River, to cheat it of its mocking victory…

"Frodo!"

Verily, I come to you…

The roaring of the River filled his ears as he dove.

He broke the water cleanly with hardly a splash, but that was his last moment of control in the hopelessly one-sided contest. When he surfaced the River slammed into him with the brutal force of a charging bull and bore him swiftly away.

Halimac's screams sounded thin and distant, and with difficulty Frodo managed to twist around and look back. The rapidly receding dock, with the hobbit a tiny speck on it, was already far behind, and soon disappeared completely around a bend in the river.

Frodo had no more thought of trying to reach the far shore—all his strength was now required just to keep his head above water as he was buffeted about like the River's plaything. All about him swirled the debris of the flood tide: logs and planks, a tangle of fishing net, a bucket, a child's toy boat. The bloated body of a goat bumped up against him, lifeless and staring, and he pushed it away in horror. The numbing cold felt like a steel band drawing ever tighter around his chest. He felt himself tiring, and wondered how much longer he would be able to stay afloat. For a moment he was pulled under, and only with a great effort fought his way back to the surface.

Just as he felt his strength failing he managed to catch hold of a large plank as it sped by. He clung desperately to the end of it, gasping for breath. If he could just manage to hold on until he reached the hythe at Grindwall, he might have a chance…

Some sudden instinct or premonition made him look back to see a huge uprooted tree bearing down on him, moving fast. Frantically, he tried to kick out of its path. Then he felt a sharp blow to his head and everything went black.

_End Part Four __

* * *

Author's notes: _

Re: Gorbadoc death date – There is a discrepancy in LOTR that makes any attempt to write about Gorbadoc problematic: while the Gaffer says in "A Long-expected Party" that Drogo and Primula were visiting Gorbadoc at the time of their boating accident, according to the Brandybuck family tree in Appendix C he died before Frodo was born. My opinion is that narrative trumps appendices and so I've included him in this chapter, but as a compromise killed him off as quickly as possible—within a year of the drowning. (And while the story does not tell what happened to Mirabella, I imagine she would have returned to Great Smials after her husband's death, having found she could no longer bear even the sight of the River.)

Breon Briarwood – Yes, Frodo is something of a magnet for trouble, isn't he? But things generally turn out all right in the end…until this chapter, anyway.

elentari angel – I can promise you one more good scene with Merry and Frodo, coming up in the next (and final) chapter. And glad you enjoyed the drunken revelries!

Endymion2 – "Vittles" is a rustic term for food, used by the Gaffer several times in LOTR: "Mr. Drogo…being partial to his vittles," or, as quoted by Sam, "Where there's life, there's hope…and need of vittles."  
Yes, the tale of the Bunce brothers and the fair Tourmaline is my own, though the "whole history around it" is Tolkien's—the plague, the King at Lake Evendim, etc. I'm so glad you liked it…I certainly enjoyed writing it! In fact I could almost imagine doing a whole series of such stories—Feralia Mugwort's Tales from the Barrow, perhaps?—except that my tyrannical muse wouldn't allow it until I've produced the 10 or 12 stories she thinks I ought to write first.  
You're correct, Blommath's Eve is Halloween…and Longfathers Day is All Souls Day (Day of the Dead in Mexico). So Germany doesn't have similar holidays? Well, considering those people "selling stuff" as you put it, you're probably better off…Halloween has become the second most commercial holiday in America, after Christmas.  
Regarding E. Nesbit: long before there was J.K. Rowling, long even before Tolkien and Lewis, Edith Nesbit was writing her marvelous, magical tales. I especially recommend the trilogy _The Five Children and It_, _The Phoenix and the Carpet_, and _The Story of the Amulet_.


	5. The Offering

Rating: PG for mild implied violence in some chapters.  
Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Tolkien estate; I am making no money from them.  
Author's notes and responses to reviews at the end of this chapter.

**

* * *

The Terror of Buckland **

By Inkling

"I recollect the time when young Frodo Baggins was one of the worst young rascals of Buckland."  
- Farmer Maggot

Part Five: The Offering

The hobbits gathered around the hearth in the Brandy Hall kitchen looked almost peaceful at first: Rorimac with his pipe, Menegilda with her knitting, Esmeralda rocking her baby's cradle. But Rory's pipe, clenched between his teeth, was unlit and forgotten, and Gilda's needles lay idle in her lap. Esmeralda hummed softly to Merry, but her expression was strained. No one had spoken for some time. Outside the storm was howling furiously.

Linaria Brandybuck, Halimac's mother, hurried into the kitchen. "Any word?" she asked anxiously.

Rory shook his head.

"If any harm's come to my Hal, on your head be it, Rory, for taking in that Baggins boy! He's been nothing but trouble since the day his parents drowned, and whatever's become of them tonight we all know who's behind it. Hal never gets into mischief unless someone's dragged him into it—"

"That's enough, Lin!" said Rory sharply. "We're all as worried as you are, but carrying on like that won't do no one any good. Now set yourself down and try to stay calm. All we can do is wait for news to come in from the search parties."

The minutes dragged by. Rory's younger son Merimac came in, drenched and exhausted, to say there was no sign of the boys, but that the ferry raft had been found smashed up downriver. The storm was worsening and most hobbits had given up the search. Linaria started getting worked up again. After gulping a mug of hot tea Mac left to rejoin the searchers.

Some time later Saradoc arrived with Farmer Maggot's eldest son Rob, who had ridden in from the Brandywine Bridge to bring news that Halimac was safe at Bamfurlong Farm.

"Praise be!" cried Linaria, hugging him and sobbing.

Rory looked at Sara, who was staring at the floor, jaw clenched. "And Frodo?" he asked quietly.

Sara said nothing.

Finally Rob faltered, not knowing quite where to look, "Hal said that Frodo went into the River. Tried to swim across, but…"

There was a grim silence. Finally Rory asked Sara in a voice devoid of any emotion, "Who's still out searching?"

"Just Mac, and Curley Brownlock," said Sara with an effort. "Fenton Longhole was out until a short while ago, when his father came and dragged him off by the ear. Oh yes, and Alfred Tunnelly. I imagine he was feeling a bit guilty…"

"Tell them to come in." Rory's voice was as firm and commanding as ever, but his whole body sagged and he suddenly seemed much older. He gave orders to have the river dragged once the flood tide subsided.

Linaria left with Rob Maggot, and Sara followed shortly after to call off the search. Esmeralda sat weeping quietly and Merry stirred in his sleep, whimpering a little.

"It's getting late, we should all go to bed," said Gilda gently.

"Aye."

But no one moved.

. . .

The ferry dock shook violently as the water surged against it, nearly dislodging the small figure that stood there alone. The wind whipped his hair and clothes and the rain drove into his face, drowning his tears. He took something out of his pocket and stared at it a long minute before hurling it as far out over the River as he could. "Take it," he sobbed, his cry torn away by the gale, "only just give him back!" The object, small but heavy, sank without a trace.

. . .

A blast of wind whirled down the hall as a front door opened and closed. The watchers by the fire heard Saradoc's voice—"What were you thinking lad, don't you know you could have been swept away?"—and sprang to their feet. But when he entered the kitchen it was only Gilly Banks who trailed slowly after him. "I found him down at the ferry dock," Sara said.

Rory looked at the small, miserable hobbit, water pooling around him as he stood with downcast eyes, and when he spoke his voice was uncharacteristically gentle. "Do your parents know you're out, lad?"

"N—no sir," Gilly shivered. "I climbed through my bedroom window." Then he lifted his head and looked up at Rory with desperate determination. "But I don't care if I catch it from them, if only I can help Frodo!"

"There's naught you or anyone else can do now, lad, but wait it out," said Rory softly. He turned to his son. "Find someone to take him home, Sara."

. . .

The storm had abated slightly when Hob Hayward threw on his cloak and ventured down to Grindwall hythe to see if his fishing boats had survived the assault. He breathed a sigh of relief to see a row of dark forms bobbing along the dock, and began to count. One, two, three…but the next shape was too large and irregular to be a boat. He peered through the gloom and finally made out that a partially submerged tree trunk had washed up among his fleet, its roots thrusting out of the water.

Muttering curses, Hob drew closer, trying to discern whether it had damaged any boats. He grasped the near end of the tree, intending to pull it free and send it on its way down the River. He struggled with the slick, unwieldy bole; it offered more resistance than a floating piece of wood by rights should have.

Reaching down to get a better purchase, he glimpsed something pale among the dark tangle of roots. He leaned out for a better look, and choked back a cry: it was a face. A hobbit—a young one, as far as he could judge—was caught among the twisted roots, and as luck or fate would have it his head was supported above the water line. But was he dead or alive? Hob cautiously lowered himself into the frigid water and pulled himself along the trunk toward the small, still figure.

. . .

It was past midnight when the silence that had settled over Brandy Hall was shattered by a pounding at the door. Saradoc, roused from a restless doze, jumped up and ran to open it. Rory did not move, but only sat gazing into the dying embers of the fire. Esmeralda and Gilda stirred and stretched, stiff from their long vigil, but froze when they heard Sara's sharp exclamation, followed by a rapid, murmured exchange. They stared at each other, bracing for the worst.

After what seemed an eternity Saradoc reappeared on the kitchen threshold, followed closely by Hob Hayward from Breredon. Then they both stepped aside to let someone pass.

It was Frodo, tightly wrapped in a cloak and blanket, eyes dull with fatigue and face deathly pale. Esmeralda cried out and started to run to him, but Gilda held her back. Looking only at Rory, Frodo walked slowly across the room and came to a stop before his uncle's chair. Swaying slightly, he said nothing but only stood and waited.

Still Rory stared into the fire, his craggy features cast into sharp relief by its glow. Then without looking up he began to speak: "Prim and me weren't close...there was a good 18 years' difference between us. But she was everybody's favorite: the baby of the family, the gayest and prettiest too. She meant the world to Da. We were both there when they pulled her out of the river, and I saw the life drain out of him that day. Oh, he didn't die for another year yet, but it killed him just the same."

Slowly he turned in his chair and looked at Frodo for the first time. "Well, Frodo," he said in a quiet voice, worse—much worse—than his shouting. "It seems you're bent on throwing your life away, and I reckon one of these days you'll succeed. But," his voice now rising, "I'll be hogtied and horsewhipped if you do it on my watch!"

He paused, collecting himself again, and continued more calmly, "I'll say no more tonight...it's late and we're all dead beat. And I expect you could use a hot bath and some sup. But Saradoc," he added, fixing his son with a meaningful look, "We need to talk first thing in the morning."

"Come along, dear," said Esmeralda. She put her arm around Frodo, and for once he let her.

. . .

Exhausted though he was, it was long before Frodo could find sleep that night, and when he finally did he was troubled by dark, ominous dreams.

The first thing he noticed when he awoke was the cold. It seemed to have crept into his very heart, clutching like icy claws. He was lying with his back against a great stone slab, and it slowly came to him that he was in the Stone Circle. The towering monoliths loomed above him, dim and unreal in their shroud of fog.

With a great effort he struggled to his feet, sensing an urgent summons. He searched desperately among the stones for someone or something, a sense of panic growing as he did so. _Where are you?_ he cried, his voice sounding thin and shrill in his own ears.

Then the mists parted and he saw it: a great black bull, standing as still as if carved in stone. It regarded him, a fell light in its eye, and Frodo gazed back with sudden understanding. _I know you_, he whispered, though his voice seemed to make no sound. The bull dipped its head in salute, then charged.

It seemed to Frodo that time moved with unbearable slowness as the beast rushed toward him. He groped for something at his breast, and his fingers closed about a smooth stone hanging on a chain around his neck: Gilly's magic talisman. Surely it would protect him! But now the bull was upon him and he felt a searing pain in his shoulder as a great curving horn plunged deep. With a triumphant bellow the beast tossed Frodo high over its back…

Then he was in the River once more. As he drifted helplessly down through the murky depths, foul beings came swimming toward him, weeds twisted in their streaming hair, lips drawn back in ghoulish grins, rotting fingers clutching at him. It was the Bunce brothers! Desperately he tried to get away but his limbs felt heavy and useless and he knew there was no hope: they would seize him and drag him down, down, an endless descent into darkness, and he would be one with them forever.

But suddenly, instead of their loathsome touch he felt strong, gentle arms cradling him and heard a voice that was unfamiliar, yet seemed somehow very dear: "Wake up, Mr. Frodo!"

Gradually it became the voice of Mistress Mugwort, the healer. "Master Frodo, you've got to wake up!"

He sat up with a gasp clinging to her arm, his face wet with tears. "Help me!"

"There now, be still," she soothed, rocking him a minute longer. "'Twas a bad dream, that's all, and little wonder at that, given the mischief you get up to! But you're safe now, my dear."

Frodo was still shaken and bewildered. "What happened?" he faltered. "I saw the Bunce brothers…"

Feralia chuckled softly. "They _are_ getting about this year, I must say! Calm yourself lad, 'twas naught but a dream I tell you, and the less we speak of it the sooner you'll forget.

"Now then, the Master asked me to come 'round first thing this morning to see how you were faring after your dip in the River, so let me just make sure you're still in one piece." She continued talking as she gently felt his limbs. "Last night's storm was the worst I've seen this early in the season for many a year…sixteen head of livestock drowned and boat docks swept away up and down the River."

She gave him a curious look, her golden eyes glinting. "Someone or something has other plans for you, Frodo Baggins, or you'd surely be dead this day."

"What do you mean?" Frodo asked uneasily, feeling a slight shiver go down his back.

"I don't rightly know myself," admitted the healer with a crooked smile. "But there's stranger things in this Middle Earth, my dear, than any that yet have visited your dreams!"

Her skilled fingers carefully probed the back of his head. "That's a nasty bump, Master Frodo, and I'd like to ask you a few questions to make sure it hasn't addled your brains any…at least, no more'n they already are," she added with a wink. "Now then, how many fingers am I holding up?"

"Six."

"And what is your relationship to Paladin Took?"

"Second cousin on my mother's side," Frodo replied promptly.

"Good. And to Hamilcar Hornblower?"

"Second cousin once removed on my father's side."

"Very good. And in what year did the North Kingdom fall?"

She said this last so casually that it caught Frodo completely off guard. He sat gaping at her, and she laughed. "What's the matter lad, did you fancy you were the only one in Buckland to know a thing or two about the Outside?"

Frodo swallowed hard. "No, ma'am. It was in the year 374."

"Right enough—by Shire Reckoning. But what year was it by the King's Reckoning?

Frodo had to admit he didn't know.

Feralia clucked her tongue. "'Twas in Third Age 1974. What's that Bilbo Baggins been teaching you, eh? Elves and Dwarves are well and good, but Shirefolk's allegiance to the King was serious business once on a time…and may be again some day, if there's anything to the old prophecies," she added in a low, musing voice.

"What prophecies?" asked Frodo eagerly.

"Eh, what's that? Never you mind Master Frodo, you've got more pressing things to worry about just now…such as what's to become of you. I believe your kin are deciding that very question right now."

. . .

Frodo moved quickly through the smial, grateful to see no one about at this early hour but two of his young cousins, Beryl and Benodas Brandybuck, playing in the passageway. Little Benny was hopping on one foot in time to the doggerel he was singing:

Sometimes I live in the country,  
Sometimes I live in the town,  
Sometimes I get a great notion  
To jump in the River an'—

Suddenly his sister noticed Frodo and nudged him hard in the ribs. Benny clapped his hand over his mouth with a frightened squeak. But Frodo barely heeded them as he hurried on toward Rory's bedchamber. He knew this was a discussion that would not be held in the kitchen.

As he stealthily approached the room, he heard raised voices coming through the closed door. There was no mistaking his uncle's gruff tones:

"…I don't care how you explain it, Sara, this time he's gone too far. It's my duty to protect the good name of the Brandybucks—and of Buckland itself . D'you know what they'd be saying of us in the Shire, with three of that family already lost to the River, had it claimed the last? I'm sorry son, but my mind's made up: Frodo must leave Brandy Hall, and the sooner the better. The only thing left to decide is where he's to go."

There was a pause, then Sara spoke, sounding weary and defeated. "What about Bilbo? He seems fond of the lad."

"Mad Baggins? Hardly a fit guardian for a rascal like Frodo. He needs someone with a firm hand and a watchful eye to keep him in line."

"Perhaps Drogo's brother Dudo would take him in?"

"Nay, Dudo has worries enough what with Daisy chasing around after Griffo Boffin and every other handsome rogue in the Westfarthing. If he wants my advice I'd marry off that one posthaste and not wait till she comes of age! Nay, I'm going to write to Dora Baggins, it's time she assumed her share of responsibility for the lad."

Frodo's heart sank. Not his Aunt Dora! Severe and humorless, his father's spinster older sister brooked no nonsense from anyone. Out of a sense of familial obligation she had invited Frodo for a visit ever summer since his parents died. Though he stayed only a fortnight, each day seemed interminable. The reading or writing of Elvish was strictly forbidden as "frivolous foreign nonsense" that would give him "dangerous ideas." She set him instead to memorizing and reciting the family-tree of the Bagginses of Hobbiton for generations back, rapping him on the knuckles with her cane if he left anyone out.

The prospect of going to live with her was unthinkable. He desperately wondered if he could appeal to Bilbo, but feared that while his bold cousin may have faced a dragon in its den, even he wouldn't dare to gainsay the formidable matriarch of the Baggins clan should she agree to take Frodo in hand.

But a moment later these bleak thoughts were driven away by a far more disturbing one. Something Rory said had been niggling at the back of his mind, something that didn't make sense…

…three of that family already lost to the River…

The significance of these words now struck Frodo like a blow…_three_? Dim memories of his mother lying still and pale against blood-soaked bedclothes came flooding back, and what he had not comprehended as a three-year-old was suddenly, terribly, clear.

Frodo stumbled back to his room in a haze of shock and anguish. He shut the door quietly behind him and then banged his head slowly and repeatedly against it, hoping the pain would drive away the greater torment of his thoughts.

The brother or sister he had always longed for…the grief his parents tried to hide when he asked why there were no more faunts…if he had not jumped in the River that day…if his mother had not gone in after him…

He sank to the floor, desperate for the release of tears or oblivion, but finding neither. This was far worse than his dream—he felt trapped inside a nightmare from which there was no waking, no way to escape the insidious voices whispering that he and he alone was to blame.

When a real voice broke through his agonized reverie, he clung to it as to a lifeline.

"_Hssst!_ Frodo, are you there?" The voice was low, urgent, and coming from outside his window.

Standing shakily, Frodo crossed the room and looked down to see Fenton Longhole. His lower lip was cut and swollen, crusted with dried blood.

"Fenton!" cried Frodo, forgetting his own troubles for the moment. "What happened? Are you alright?"

"Never mind that," said Fenton impatiently. "Listen, I'm glad to see you alive, Frodo, but there's no time to gab…I've just come to say goodbye."

"What do you mean?" asked Frodo in alarm.

"I mean I'm clearin' out! I can't live another day under the same roof with me old man, or one of us looks fair to kill the other…I've had it with bein' knocked around every time I don't toe the mark or he's had too much to drink!

It occurred to Frodo that having Lucas Longhole for a father might be worse than having none. "But where will you go?"

"Me mum had family in Bree, we used to visit them sometimes before she…anyway, I reckon they'll take me in."

"So you're up and running away, just like that?"

"Just like that."

Frodo was silent a long moment, then blurted out, "Take me with you!"

Fenton looked at him incredulously. "Frodo, I've wondered before if you was daft, and now I'm startin' to believe it. What call would a gentlehobbit like yourself have to go leavin' a fine place like Brandy Hall, with all the food you can eat and a room of your very own?"

Frodo realized how his life must look to Fenton, who shared a room with several brothers and often went to bed hungry. He stared at his friend, wondering how to explain that even a nice smial and enough to eat did not ensure happiness. He gave it up and said simply, "They're sending me away to live with my Aunt Dora Baggins."

This gave Fenton pause, for he had heard Frodo's horror stories. "Not your aunt who doses you with fish oil every morning?"

"That's the one," said Frodo grimly.

"The one who says second breakfast is for gluttons?"

"The same."

"And that mushrooms are unhealthful?"

"Right again."

Fenton gave a low, sympathetic whistle. "Say no more, mate! I reckon my cousins can find room for the both of us, so long as you're willin' to work hard and earn your keep. How much time do you need to get your stuff together?"

"Not long."

"Right then, I'll be back in half an hour."

Once Fenton had gone Frodo spent no time reflecting on his decided course of action. He yanked out drawers and rummaged in his wardrobe, dragged his box and journal out from under the bed, and hurriedly began tying his things into a bundle.

. . .

Esmeralda sat nursing Merry, sick at heart as she thought about Frodo. From the time he was small she had sensed in him a rare, ineffable quality, something of light, grace, and beauty that was beyond the understanding, or even the perception, of most of those around him. Esmeralda herself did not understand it, though she could see it, a little. And even now, behind all his walls and defenses, the light was there still…but fragile as a guttering flame, in peril of being extinguished forever.

He's been pulled from the River but he's still drowning…

She felt consumed by fear and guilt—fear of what would become of him were he to be sent away feeling unloved and unwanted, and guilt that she had not the courage to try to stop it. She knew her fierce, protective love of Merry meant she would do anything for him: fight, steal, even die. But what was she willing to do for Frodo? If she were to defy Rory, argue for keeping him at Brandy Hall, what surety did she have that he would change his ways? What if Rory were proved right and Frodo's next misstep cost him his life, as this one by rights should have?

Her thoughts returned to Rory's words. If Frodo had died that day, there would have been a great uproar, with recriminations and accusations exchanged as all tried to deny responsibility for his safety and well-being. Rory was correct: Buckland's reputation among smug Shirefolk as a queer and dangerous place would have been sealed for all time, and the Brandybucks castigated as untrustworthy guardians. There would have been disgrace, shame, regret…but very little genuine grief.

Esmeralda felt anguished by this realization, though she knew with a conviction born of her own new motherhood that it was the cruel, yet natural, way of the world_. We all look after our own_… But it didn't seem fair, and she longed for something more for Frodo, some reprieve or saving grace that she knew was beyond her power to give.

A gentle tug on her hair brought her back to herself and she looked down to see Merry giving her his best "pay attention to me" smile, milk dribbling from the corner of his mouth. It had never failed him before, and it didn't now.

"My dear little Merry-lamb," she said, catching him up and kissing him, "you always cheer your Mummy up when she's blue, don't you?" She stopped suddenly, struck by her own words. "I wonder," she murmured, recalling the morning she had seen Frodo at Merry's cradle and the tender affection that had illuminated his face ever so briefly. She gazed down at Merry and came to a decision. "Merry my love, let's go change your nappie!"

. . .

Esmeralda stood outside Frodo's room, holding Merry on her hip, and gave a soft rap on the door. "Frodo, it's Ezzie." Without waiting for a reply she pushed the door open and entered, just in time to see Frodo hurriedly kick a large bundle into the corner of the room and then try hard to look innocent. Esmeralda took in the situation at a glance and fought down a wave of panic. She drew a deep breath, then said, "Frodo, I need your help!"

Frodo looked stunned. Of all the possible things he was bracing himself to hear, that clearly wasn't one. He stared at the floor as Esmeralda kept talking, her words tumbling out in a rush:

"I have to ride out to Crickhollow because Cousin Verbena's baby is due any time now, and I can't very well take Merry with me, and there's no one else I can trust to keep him because Amaranth is ill and Asphodel's visiting her in-laws and the other women are busy with the canning, and so Frodo, would you watch him for me until my return?"

The silence that followed was broken by a happy gurgle from Merry as he waved his arms at Frodo.

Slowly, Frodo raised his head and met Esmeralda's gaze. "You…you would trust me with him?" he whispered. His wary expression suddenly faded, and her heart ached at what she read in his eyes: surprise and a glimmer of hope, but beneath that a sea of pain and loneliness, and a desperate plea she knew he would never voice aloud.

"Of course, dear," said Esmeralda gently, reaching out to briefly stroke his cheek. "You're a good lad, Frodo." Then, making her voice brisk and matter-of-fact, she continued, "Now, he's been fed and changed, so he shouldn't be any bother. Why don't you sit on this chair, and I can show you how to hold him, like so."

Just before she left the room, she glanced back and saw Frodo sitting there as if afraid to move, staring wide-eyed at the baby.

"Oh, and one more thing, Frodo—"

"Yes, Auntie?"

She smiled—he hadn't called her that in years. "He won't break, lad."

Then she went out.

. . .

Though Esmeralda tried to keep herself occupied with trivial chores, her unease was growing by the minute. There was no doubt in her mind as to what Frodo was doing when she walked in on him, and she began to feel that her plan was unwise in the extreme.

"Whatever were you thinking, Esmeralda Brandybuck?" she chided herself. "Leaving your one and only child in the care of a reckless, unpredictable lad with one foot out the door—you must have taken leave of your senses!"

Finally she could bear it no longer, and left her quarters to steal back along the passage toward Frodo's room. Trying not to feel guilty she crept up to the door and listened. She could hear Merry giggling as Frodo chanted,

…and this is the way the farmers ride  
Hobbledy hoy, hobbledy hoy  
Hobbledy hobbledy hoy!

The game ended with Merry's shriek of delight and Frodo's bright laughter. Esmeralda relaxed, wondering now why she had been so worried, and was just about to turn back when she heard another, more distant voice.

"Hoy, Frodo!"

She froze.

"All right Fenton, I'm coming!" Frodo's voice faded as he moved across the room to the window, and Esmeralda pressed her ear against the door, straining to hear.

"Hullo, what's this then? Is Merry comin' with us?"

"Now who's being daft? Of course not, I'm just watching him for my Aunt Ezzie!"

"Well you'd better give him back, it's time for us to push off!"

"I can't, Fenton, Ezzie went to Crickhollow and entrusted him to me until she returns."

"Frodo, I dursn't wait any longer. My da's goin' to be wise to me any time now, and I need to get a good start before he knows I'm gone! We've got to leave now!"

"But what am I to do with Merry?"

"Just set him on your bed, he'll be fine till your aunt gets back."

Esmeralda's jaw tightened. Though he couldn't crawl yet, Merry was an expert roller and Frodo's bed stood high off the stone floor. Deciding it was time to put an end to this game, she had her hand on the door handle when Frodo spoke again.

"I'm sorry, Fenton, I can't do that."

"Why ever not?"

There was a pause, then Frodo said slowly, "Because Merry might get hurt if he's alone. And because I—I can't let Aunt Ezzie down. I have to stay here until she comes back."

"But what about Dora Baggins?"

"I'll think of something," said Frodo, though he didn't sound very confident.

"Well, it's your funeral." Fenton's shrug was as clear to Esmeralda as if she could see it.

"Listen Fenton, you go on…I'll catch up with you later."

"All right then," said Fenton dubiously. "Tell you what, when I get to the Brandywine Bridge I'll hide below it and wait there for you as long as I can. But I aim to be out of Buckland before nightfall. That gives you maybe an hour, no more."

"Fair enough. I'll be there if I can, and if not…then good luck to you, Fenton."

"And to you, mate!"

Esmeralda leaned her forehead against the door, her heartbeat gradually slowing. An hour…very well then, she would make certain that she did not retrieve Merry until at least that much time had passed.

When she next heard Frodo's voice it was much closer, and she guessed that he had returned to the chair. Merry was making the small complaining noises that usually meant he was tired.

"Are you getting sleepy, Merry-lad? Here, let Cousin Frodo rock you a bit."

All was quiet for a few minutes, then he began speaking in a low, soothing voice that flowed on in gentle cadences like a quiet stream:

"Don't fret little one, your mama will come back for you soon and I promise I'll not leave you till she does. That's one thing you need never worry about, Merry—being alone. You've a mother and father who love you very much, and a gaffer and gammer and lots of aunts and uncles and cousins. There's just one thing you don't have, and that's a brother or sister to play with. You should've had two of them, but they were lost. You and I are alike in that way, Merry, we both lost brothers or sisters."

Esmeralda started. When had Frodo discovered that his mother had lost a baby? Primula had been insistent that the secret be kept from him, and until now she thought it had.

"I think I would have made a good brother," added Frodo with a slight quaver in his voice. After a moment's pause he continued, "But Merry, I—I could be like a big brother to you, and look out for you and teach you things…would you like that?"

Hesitant at first, Frodo grew increasingly eager as he talked. "There's so much I could teach you when you're old enough: how to climb trees, and skip stones, and the names of the stars, and where to find the best mushrooms …well, maybe not that last," he added hastily. "But most important of all, Merry, I'd teach you how to swim like a fish—and how to tell when the River is safe for swimming. You must never underestimate the River, you know.

"And there's one more thing that brothers do, Merry"—a fierce note now crept into his voice—"I swear that no one will ever tease you or bully you or hurt you in any way, or they'll have me to reckon with!" But as quickly as it arose, his bravado seemed suddenly to vanish with the recollection of his current predicament. "If Uncle Rory lets me stay, that is…" Frodo trailed off, before resuming with new determination, "Well, he simply must let me stay, that's all. Don't worry, Merry, I'll find a way to convince him!"

Esmeralda noted with relief that Frodo seemed to have forgotten all about meeting Fenton at the bridge. A longer silence ensued, in which Merry began to whimper again, perhaps wanting Frodo to keep talking.

"Hush now, little one…here's a song for you." Frodo lifted his clear, sweet voice—still so much a child's voice, she thought:

I saw a ship a-sailing  
A-sailing on the sea  
And, oh! It was all laden  
With pretty things for thee!

There were confits in the cabin,  
And apples in the hold,  
The sails were made of silk  
And the masts were all of gold.

Esmeralda had a sudden, vivid memory of Primula singing that song to Frodo when he was small. She abruptly turned and hurried away, afraid she would not be able to choke back the sob welling up in her breast. She almost collided with Saradoc coming out of their room.

"What's the matter?" he asked in alarm when he saw her tear-streaked face. "Where's Merry? Is he all right?"

Esmeralda smiled through her tears. "Yes, Sara, he's all right. He's with Frodo."

"Frodo?"

"Yes," she said firmly. "Everything is all right, I tell you. And Sara, you can go tell your father not to send that letter to Dora Baggins."

"What do you mean? Frodo—"

"Sara, didn't you hear me? Everything is going to be all right now." She added softly, more to herself than to Saradoc, "Frodo's going to be all right."

The End

_

* * *

Author's notes: _

Lyrics of Benny's doggerel from "Good Night Irene" by Leadbelly (Huddie Ledbetter)

A huge thank you to my reviewers for their encouragement and kind words. I got such a kick out of this whole experience: writing the story, sending it out into the world, getting and responding to the feedback…I'm hooked! I want to do it again!

I have no lack of story ideas, only of time—and possibly talent—to write them. But I aim to try! With any luck story #2 may emerge sometime around the end of the summer…

Breon Briarwood – Yes, Alfred had it coming didn't he? Though he's not really bad at heart, just insecure. As you now know, you guessed right about Primula.

CuriousCat – I'm glad you could see the future hero in this characterization of young Frodo. The many qualities that sustained him on the Quest—an innate toughness, the courage to face down enemies, an ironic sense of humor and a basic kindness, among others—would have been there from the beginning, even when overlaid with defiance and confusion, and I tried to capture that.

eiluj – Sam's birth date? Hmm…well I guess I'd say family-trees trump the Tale of Years. After all hobbits took their family-trees very seriously, so you'd expect them to be accurate. Whereas Merry and Pippin probably just got a bit sloppy when compiling the Tale of Years…

endymion2 – This fanfiction world is a wonderful thing—that I can write a story, send it off into cyberspace, and suddenly find myself discussing holiday customs with a reader in Germany! (Sorry, but I'm new to all this so am still in the "Gee Whiz!" phase…)   
Well my dear, I've enjoyed our chats and hope you and your children enjoy Nesbit should you give her a try (my 8-year-old twin boys loved _The Five Children and It_, if that's any recommendation). And have a lovely holiday!

lovethosehobbits – Thank you, I'm honored by the comparison! 'Rites of Passage' casts quite a long shadow over other "young Frodo" fics…but perhaps 'Terror of Buckland' has staked some ground of its own in its periodic lapses into silliness…? I love writing angst, but need to retreat into the absurd every now and then. That I attempted both within the same story may be a questionable approach—I have yet to see another fic with "angst/humor" listed as the genre!—but one that I enjoyed this time. Next time, we'll see…

SwordSwallower17 – Thanks, I'm glad you enjoyed it!

tiggivon – Thank you so much for your detailed and very kind reviews of chapters 1–4. I'm touched that you found "humor and wise words" in my story! Hope you liked the conclusion…


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